


The Verge

by kewkewkachew



Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Reapers, Autistic Shepard, Colonist (Mass Effect), Drug trafficking, Female Shepard - Freeform, Gen, In-game Dialogue, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Romance, Shakarian - Freeform, Slave Trade, Slow Burn, Touch Aversion, Vanguard (Mass Effect), War Hero (Mass Effect), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-06 17:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kewkewkachew/pseuds/kewkewkachew
Summary: When a series of attacks connect the drug and slave trade to a high-ranking Citadel official, a renegade C-Sec detective and a by-the-book Alliance Navy officer must work together to bring him down. An AU, inspired by "The Bridge" TV series.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Mass Effect is the property of Bioware. This work is an AU inspired by the TV series “The Bridge”. No copyright infringement is intended. This work includes mature, disturbing themes that may be triggering to some. Read at your own discretion.

_October 2179_

 

“You didn’t show up to the ceremony.”

From her newest ship model project, Shepard flickered a listless look at her mentor, picking up on some sort of disturbance in his tone of voice. Was it anger? No, not sharp enough. She eliminated the possibility of him making a statement, as well; from her twenty-five years of experience, humans seldom made random obvious statements unless they were a) trying to get a point across or being sarcastic or b) low in intelligence due to age or physiological impairments. She twitched a nostril before burying her nose in her magnifying glass and continuing to carefully paint a fine black stripe on her new M35 Mako model.

“I don’t like them. Too crowded.”

She heard Anderson sigh before the legs of a chair scraped against the metal floor. He took a seat across from her.

“I know,” he said.

Two sepia-colored fingers took the yet unpainted cannon between them. Had he been anyone else, Shepard would have been inclined to throw a fit. Anderson, she decided, had been part of her “environment” since her induction into the Alliance six years ago; therefore, something such as touching her belongings– even more so her “babies” – wasn’t so much an invasive overture as a curious exploration of surroundings. Curiosity. She understood that quite well.

“The Alliance wants to do this for you, Shepard.”

“I don’t get it. I did what I did ‘cause I had to.”

Another sigh.

“Looks good on a resume, a Star of Terra award.” A few seconds of silence and then he continued. “And it makes the Alliance look good.”

The paintbrush made a soft, flat tap against the table as she set it down, and she looked back up at him. There it was: This wasn’t about being commended for being a war hero. She didn’t expect it to be. This was about optics, politics– more she didn’t understand. Apparently, there was a lot she didn’t understand when it came to human beings. It made her feel alien in her own species.

“Will you at least come to the dedication on Elysium? You can’t pull a Jon Grissom every time.”

A few blinks in response.

“For your fallen squadmates.”

“They’re naming it after me,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Besides, none of them will know. They’re dead.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Of  _what?”_

“You’re not making this easy on me” The middle-aged man groaned, rubbing the space between his close-set eyes. “It’ll, uh, I dunno… help their families get closure?”

“With a statue of me.”

“Dammit, Shepard! Will you just show up? Do it for the people of Elysium.”

There was that haggard look; she saw it most often when a mission had gone south, or when he’d just come back from a vidcom with Cynthia, his ex-wife. Squared jaw tight, nostrils flared, that frowning wrinkle between his eyes, and silence ringing in the warbling hum of the ship’s engines. Why was he so angry?

“Fine! Fine,” he sighed. “For me. Will you do it for me?”

She twitched her nose and thumbed at it once. Twice. He finally had her: Anderson knew she wouldn’t refuse a request from him.

“Fine.”

  


* * *

 

“On the morning of Saturday, October 5th, 2176, the colony of Elysium fell victim to the first attack of what would later be known as the Skyllian Blitz,” Admiral Hackett began. The gravelly quality to his voice could make a Saturday morning cartoon have gravitas. “During the course of a week, the colonists put up an admirable fight and, led by Lieutenant Jennifer Millicent Shepard and her platoon, managed to fend them off. Then, on, October 13th, when the slavers broke through the defenses, Lieutenant Shepard singlehandedly repulsed the ground forces, giving the colonists a chance to escape to safety while reinforcements arrived.”

Anderson stole a glance at his protege: stoic as ever. He still found it difficult to believe that just nine years ago, she had just been some child, a newly orphaned catatonic teenager. The thought of it made his skin crawl and the hair on his arms rise.

A lanky girl in a shredded pale blue nightgown, marred with mud and blood. Dark brown hair matted and glued to her expressionless face. It made him wonder what that freckled face would look like twisting with laughter and joy. Her small hand had been clutching a heavily modded Stiletto pistol with a vice grip. By the deep bruise forming on her wrist he determined she hadn’t been used to the kickback; therefore, it was likely not her weapon. Later, they determined the thermal clip had been emptied.

No matter how many times he’d asked if she’d been injured, she wouldn’t respond. Still, he remembered the adrenaline-induced biotic punch he had barely dodged when he’d attempted to tap her shoulder. And that scream. God, that blood-curdling scream. What had they done to her? He recalled it had taken two other marines to hold her down and administer a much-needed sedative in order to take her to the medical bay.

Two miles down the path, they had found a farmhouse and a barn– nothing out of the ordinary; Mindoir was a farming colony, after all. While the house had been burning in flames, the barn’s door had been left wide open. Several kinds of footprints were scattered across the mud: human, animal, batarian. Even now he could remember the batarian corpse they’d found inside the barn; or, at least, later on, they identified it as batarian. Its head had been blown off into pieces by a point-blank shot to the head. Near the back was another batarian, this time identifiable, with multiple shot wounds to his chest, limbs and head. And just a few meters from him, the body of girl about 12 years of age.

“You’re staring,” Shepard murmured, instantly snapping him back to reality.

Anderson sucked in a breath to speak but decided against it. Not the right time.

“And now we honor them with the unveiling of this memorial.” With a quick nod from Hackett, the ensigns lifted off the cover to the bronze statue in Shepard’s likeness– well, somewhat in her likeness. The statue had her in a dynamic but strategically illogical pose, running and holding an Elkoss Combine assault rifle high above her head, hair long and loose, mouth open in a silent battle cry… all looming over a bench. A scene from a cheesy comic book, frozen in time.

Shepard said nothing, but the way her mouth flapped open a few times said it all. She was horrified.

“Artistic license, they call it,” he whispered. She didn’t even crack a smile.

“And now we would like to invite the Lieutenant to say a few words.”

If Shepard hadn’t been horrified before, he was sure of it now. All trace of color drained from her olive skin. And so Anderson did the only thing he knew would calm her down. Discreetly taking hold of her hand, he gave it a firm squeeze and waited.

She squeezed back.

A familiar grip. That same hand had squeezed his own nine years ago– though slightly smaller and just a bit less calloused– at the morgue. He hadn’t been expecting much of a reaction. Minutes prior they’d shown her the carbonized bodies of her parents and six-month-old brother and she’d barely twitched. But something in her snapped when she’d taken in her sister’s eyes, milky corneas over once hazel irises. He remembered Shepard's form plummeting to the floor, keening wails echoing throughout the sterile hospital walls. He remembered thinking she would never recover.

And now here she was, accepting one of many awards and medals. How wrong he had been.

The woman stood at the podium, her hazel eyes narrowing under the harsh flash lighting of journalistic drones and omnitools. Her fingers curled around its edges as if she didn’t trust herself to stand on her own.

“Lieutenant Shepard! Lieutenant Shepard!” called various reporters from a roaring sea of people.

“Why have you refused attending other ceremonies in your honor? How was this one different?” asked one.

“Is it because this one bears your likeness?”

A pair of panicky, confused eyes met his. Not a word and she was already tanking. Funny thing, Shepard. A brilliant tactician and formidable opponent on the battlefield, but a complete mess in the social arena.

“Uh…” At least the microphone feedback bought her a few extra seconds to think. “… Thank you.”

 _Oh, Shepard,_ he thought as he watched her descend the platform with all the speed of a charging krogan.


	2. Two

_April 2183_

 

Jennifer Shepard’s heavy footfalls echoed throughout the Citadel tower’s pristine chambers, dense rubber thudding against polished stone, a left-right-left march ingrained in her from her teenage years. Silently, she thanked whatever being watched over the universe for the lack of sharpness in the sound. A piercing headache was threatening to split her skull and make her eyeballs explode; but, she hadn’t completely lied when she had told Dr. Chakwas she was feeling better. Being conscious had to count for something, right?

“You’re a shitty liar, Shepard,” Anderson said.

“What? I wasn’t lying. Chakwas believed me.”

“Because I asked her to release you. She’s a doctor, kid. She knows when a patient is lying.”

Her cheeks felt a sudden flush of heat. Perhaps she hadn’t improved her lying skills as much as she’d thought. She sniffed and thumbed at her nose once. Twice. Again.  _Damn it._

Up ahead, she spotted two turians: the one on the left seemed a tad agitated, while the one on the right… Shepard couldn’t tell. She had enough trouble decrypting her own species’ emotions and intentions. Turians were a whole different set of trouble.

“… something. Give me more time. Stall them!”

“Stall the Council? Don’t be ridiculous. Your investigation is over, Garrus.”

With that, the turian in red turned and left. There was tension here, tension like the time when she’d pointed out the pockmarks on Engineer Adams’ face and asked if he’d had smallpox, or that time she’d asked an asari shopkeeper whether the “tentacle things” on her head were prehensile. Maybe even worse than that. The feeling intensified as a pair of impossibly blue, beady eyes locked on hers. Was he angry? Without eyebrows, it was a bit hard to tell. So many plates, plus those mandibles– not to mention the face tattoo.

“Captain Anderson? Garrus Vakarian.” She hadn’t even noticed him moving when, suddenly, he was right in front of her. “I was the officer in charge of the C-Sec investigation into Saren.”

_Saren._ Bastard had killed her brand new partner, Nihlus, and managed to burn nearly the entire colony of Eden Prime down. She hadn’t come to trust Nihlus just yet, but he hadn’t given her any reason to dislike him, either. He’d willingly come to the aid of the humans only to be shot in the back of the head, left cold and alone in an ever-growing pool of inky blood. And what did she have to show for it? A headache, a dead partner, and a broken artifact. And the only other person who seemed sure Saren had gone rogue dropped the ball. Hard.

“You’re not very good at your job, then,” she said. “You blew your one shot.” Now they could commiserate. She felt a slight nudge from her left where Anderson stood. What did she say wrong  _now?_

“I couldn’t find the proof I needed in my investigation,” he replied, directing his gaze at her. His icy eyes seemed to have a flame flickering behind them. “But I  _knew_  what was really going on. Saren is a traitor to the council and a disgrace to my people.”

Two after Saren with absolutely no proof.

“Captain Anderson? LC? The Council is ready for you,” the assistant to the asari councilor said from the top of the stairs.

Before they could leave, the turian interrupted again.

“Good luck. Maybe they’ll listen to you.”

Of course, they didn’t. They never did; this was the nature of the Council. The other turian she’d seen earlier turned out to be Executor Pallin, Councilor Sparatus’s man, and he was all too happy to defend his fellow countryman Saren, who had no qualms in taunting Shepard on her own incompetence and that of her race. Tevos and Valern flip-flopped, as always, with Valern being much more reticent about matters not directly affecting the salarian peoples.

Always a dead end with the Council.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, the crew embarked the Normandy, and yet no one dared utter a word. Anderson could feel the flames of rage rise from the ground up, but it was nothing compared to the inferno he felt coming from Shepard. Years ago, he would have been more cautious, resorting to clearing the room to shield everyone from random, uncontrolled biotic bursts scorching whatever was unfortunate enough to be in their path. He knew they no longer ran that risk; however, ever since that day on Mindoir when she’d nearly killed him with that punch, he knew better than to underestimate her.

A blue aura surrounded her hands, hands which moved in smooth, fluid lines, containing a tiny sphere of dark energy within them, a stark contrast to the darkness of the cargo bay. Tai Chi had been one of the techniques they’d taught her in therapy, a way to control the deep emotions she had no way of expressing– the unquenchable anger, the infinite sadness, the overwhelming fear; luckily, it had been key in aiding her to rein in her biotics. So, he decided to remain silent for a while, to wait until the tightness set in her jaw relaxed enough.

_Bleep!_

His omnitool, however, had other ideas.

The graceful movements came to a halt and the biotic glow faded.

“What is it?” she said, an inscrutable expression on her dark features.

_Shit._

“Just checking in.”

“I’m not gonna blow a hole in the hull.”

“I know, kid. I know.”

After a few more seconds of silence, he finally heard her feet pad against the diamond plate metal floor before the lights flickered back on. Her hands were wrapped in Mexican style black bandages.

“Getting nice and relaxed before pummeling the bag?”

“Anderson. What is it?” she asked, voice straining with traces of impatience.

The man raised his hands up defensively. Should have known better than to try to make small talk with her.

“Look,” he began, “I know things didn’t go so well back there. But we’re not out of options just yet.”

“But you heard the Council! They’re protecting that scumbag bastard because he’s one of  _them!”_ Now she was pacing, a bad sign. “And even Udina dismissed it. But we were there!” Anxious chewing on a hangnail. Another bad sign. “…  _I_ was there,” she whispered.

“Forget about Udina. You let me handle him.” Making his way toward her, he felt an itch in his hands, a need to grab her by the arms, to bring her back from the brewing storm in her mind and ground her there, but he was wiser than his paternal urges. “Listen. That turian we met, the C-Sec officer. He was working on a case against Saren, right?”

“Yes, but he failed. And we failed. What’s your point?”

“What I’m saying is we could potentially have different pieces of the same puzzle.” And when she kept that tight-lipped look on her face, he continued. “So, I need you to go find him.”

“What about you? Why don’t you go?”

“Because I outrank you,” he replied with a crooked little smile. “Besides… I’ve a got a few words for Udina to hear.”

And, for the first time in months, she smiled.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look back at Shepard's initial contact with the Alliance Navy.

_Arcturus Station, 2071_

It had been six months already, six long, tepid months since the attack on Mindoir and he couldn’t forget the dead look embedded in those amber irises. Those very eyes were like glowing apparitions watching over him, haunting him in the darkness of the night without a single blink. How would a kid like that be able to forget so much destruction, so much death and chaos?

From behind the two way mirror, he watched the girl whose burning eyes were now solely focused on a model of a familiar Alliance frigate: The SSV Hastings.  _Now, isn’t this a trip down Memory Lane?_  And now, she was taking it apart. Those models were Alliance property and the destruction of it could be considered a federal crime.

“How is she?” he asked upon hearing the whirr of the door opening behind him, followed by the clicking of footsteps. The subtle floral scent wafting in the slight draft in the room identified the visitor as Kahlee Sanders.

“She hasn’t spoken since you’ve brought her in.” There was a certain heaviness in her voice consistent with worry. And for good reason.

David Anderson hummed in acknowledgment, thumbing his bottom lip. Were she just two years older and enlisted, she’d be CAT-6 and receiving Alliance-funded therapy. But she was neither, simply a teenaged girl with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, deadly biotic powers, and very few resources to unleash all that pent-up emotion.

“I’ve never seen anyone like her. Not human, anyway,” she said. “You know, this is the third time she’s taken it apart and reassembled it in the past two hours.”

“Can I talk to her?”

When she nodded, he wasted no time entering the library. He saw something like recognition dawning in the pupils of her eyes— frigid, still amber turning to a molten lava flow.

She remembered.

He skipped the usual pleasantries as he watched her reattach the framework as if it were a toddler’s jigsaw puzzle.

“That’s the SSV Hastings. I was the XO some years back.”

The young woman paused, though she made no eye contact.

“The lead scientist here? Kahlee Sanders? She was on Sidon during the attack on the facility.”

The cold amber stillness returned; she buried her nose back into her work. He guessed she was losing interest.

“—Er, the Javelin torpedoes on that baby… Name the target and it will die.”

The model tapped against the table as she set it back down. She was back.

“Yeah… Uh, and you should have seen the battery. State of the art. One of the first that could operate with a skeleton crew, y'know.”

“Kowloon,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Kowloon.”

A vague look of puzzlement fluttered across his features.

“Athabasca,” she continued.

An Athabasca class kowloon unit? Those were unarmed cargo ships, very common in the Skyllian Verge and near any new colony startups. It was how they got most of their supplies, especially food. Unfortunately, their lack of defenses made them easy prey for pirates and slavers. It was no wonder, then, that the slavers used them to infiltrate Mindoir and…

_Oh._

He then wondered: How many nights did that merchant vessel haunt her dreams? How many minutes a day did she spend disassembling that ship in her mind, wondering how those in charge of protecting the colonists missed the batarian slavers hiding within? The five minutes he spent afterward proved unfruitful in getting any more out of her and so he decided to cut his visit short.

“Do we have any more of those model ship kits around?”

“I can certainly get some,” Kahlee replied, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. “And honestly, I think she’d be a great fit for the Program. But, as you can see we’re nowhere near done. They’re saying we’re not even gonna be holding it on this station.”

“But what about the curriculum? Is there any way that can be implemented?”

“Well, in some ways yet. But our facilities aren’t exactly well equipped to handle the dark energy bombs these kids have at their fingertips— literally.”

The creases at the corners of his lips deepened.

“So, then what? We lose her to the system?”

Kahlee shook her head no.

“What I’m saying is, our technicians can teach her how to focus the dark energy enough to keep herself and others safe. And the therapists can help her channel the trauma and contain it. But anything else… We simply don’t have the resources for that.”

He sighed.

“I guess I should be glad it isn’t BAaT.”

Though if she had been there, she wouldn’t have had to witness the slaughter of her family members. Then again, she could have been implanted with an L2. That was a different kind of trauma.

“Perhaps you can convince her to enlist.”

“Me? Why me?”

“David, come on. The first words she’s uttered in six months and she says them to you.” Golden brown eyebrows arched knowingly. “There’s a connection there. She  _trusts_ you.”

Exploiting that trust and convincing someone so vulnerable to risk her life, on the one hand, seemed unethical. Then again, structure seemed to be the one thing that would potentially save her from the chaos in her mind.

But that would be something to consider later.

“What about the research? How’s that going?”

“You know that’s classified, David.” Her plump lips curled up in a smile, head angled playfully.

“C'mon. Humor me.”

“I think we’ve reached a breakthrough. The way the implants react to eezo… Here. Follow me.”

Her large, glacier blue eyes had been one of the things that had initially attracted him to her. The way they lit up whenever she spoke of her research, however, was what had him permanently hooked. Despite the fact that Anderson didn’t understand all this jargon about firing neurons and mnemonics, the excitement lilting in her voice made him want to listen.

“These can potentially have a 10-15% power increase from the L3s without the side effects. They’re almost as powerful as the original L2s— and I mean  _those_  L2s.”

“They’d be almost as powerful as asari, then.”

Kahlee nodded again.

“But we haven’t gotten the green light to test them on humans just yet.”

“So, what? We have a bunch of biotic rats scrambling around the station? Is that it?”

No answer.

“Oh, I have  _got_  to see this.”

A flash of white appeared behind her lips, pinching her lower lip before the woman disappeared into the other room for a few seconds. She returned with a clear plastic cage which held a scampering rodent, beaming with curiosity… and a biotic glow.

“Jesus, Kahlee. It’s blue! Why is it blue?”

“His name is Nikola,” she laughed as she reached into the cage to pick him up. As if he were some common household pet, he ran up her arm and perched himself on her shoulder.

“And he’s blue.”

“Periwinkle, I’d say. But, yeah. I named him after Tesla. He’s figured out how to move objects to get to the cheese, y'know,” she said, placing him back in the cage. “Makes the cage look like a plasma ball.”

“A biotic blue rat named Nikola.”

Her nose wrinkled as she laughed, that adorable little giggle. He was so far gone. What he wouldn’t do for her. For this, he blamed the law of magnetism because damned if he wasn’t pulled to her lips like a pair of opposite ions.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard's unlikely partnership with Garrus Vakarian begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some in-game dialogue has been included.

_April 10th, 2183_

When Captain Anderson had ordered her to track down Officer Vakarian, Shepard hadn’t expected to be in a full-blown firefight in Zakera Ward, hiding behind an open doorway to avoid the stray projectiles. She sucked in a deep breath, drawing her focus away from the raucous  _pop-pop-pop_ of the firearms before peeking from around the corner with a carefully placed biotic barrier. Three armed hostiles at the end of the clinic and one holding a terrified doctor hostage with a gun pressed to her temple. A turian ducked behind a half wall, claws tightly clutching a pistol. From what she’d gathered at Chora’s Den, she assumed that was Garrus Vakarian.

Before she could charge closer to him, however, the towering alien stood up and shot a single bullet into the center of the hostile’s forehead, the massive pressure and close range causing the mass of tissue to explode like a summer melon, all over the screeching doctor who then collapsed. The situation was escalating out of control. As another spray of bullets rained across the room, the turian sprinted toward the doctor and pulled her behind a metal crate— but not before taking a bullet to the arm.

She had to end this. Quickly.

One of them peered out of cover. That was her chance. A quick movement of her fingers and she was charging toward him like a cannonball, knocking both him and one of his partners down with the force of her biotics. No time to waste. Harnessing dark energy in her right fist, she leaped over her target— who was beginning to scramble away— and drove it into the floor, sending 450 Newtons of force outwards against the two hostiles in sight, rendering them, at the very least of her knowledge, unconscious.

She knew, though, that for the next five seconds her biotics and shields were rendered completely useless; this meant that she was completely vulnerable to the last attacker unless she acted now. And, oh, was he coming for her. If he was a Vanguard class, she would be completely screwed. Shepard readied herself, focused on his first movement. No doubt he’d try to use his weapon. The heel of her palm struck her assailant’s wrist, which she grabbed and pulled until the pistol was aiming at the floor. Then, with an underhanded grip, she used her body weight to twist his arm toward his body until the pain forced him to release the weapon into her hand, effectively disarming him.

“On the ground, now!” she barked.

But she had grown careless. She saw the thug she hadn’t directly charged into moving and reaching for the gun he’d dropped. Though she kept her eyes trained on the criminal, she spotted a familiar orange glow from the corner of her eye. An omnitool, likely Garrus’s. She then noticed the same light crackling over the human’s pistol. When he pressed the trigger and only received kickback, she knew the turian had sabotaged his weapon. Taking the new opportunity, she fired a warning shot into his foot.

“I said on the ground!”

Then another shot, this one not from her newly-acquired pistol. The criminal she’d disarmed dropped to the floor.

“He was going for your leg,” Vakarian said.

Adrenaline still coursed through her veins, the biotics making the nerves in her limbs tingle, even as she watched the turian handcuff the surviving attacker. It was no wonder when she felt a surge of anger rise within her. 

“What were you thinking? You could have hit the hostage!”

“There wasn’t time to think. I just reacted. I didn’t mean to… —Dr. Michel, are you hurt?”

The russet-haired doctor tucked a strand of hair behind her hair.

“No, I’m okay,” she answered. “Thanks to you.” And then it was as if she finally noticed Shepard was in the room. “— Uh, both of you.”

When she inquired as to why they were in the clinic in the first place, the doctor informed her that they worked for the local druglord, Fist, owner of the same club she had just visited.

“They wanted to shut me up, keep me from telling Garrus about the quarian.”

Strange. Quarians were seldom seen outside their flotillas. What was a quarian doing in Zakera Ward?

“A few days ago, a quarian came by my office. She’d been shot but she wouldn’t tell me who did it. I could tell she was scared, probably on the run. She asked me about the Shadow Broker. She wanted to trade information in exchange for a safe place to hide.” The doctor was pacing, wringing her gloved hands together. “I… I put her in contact with Fist. He’s an agent for the Shadow Broker.”

“Except not anymore,” interrupted the turian. “Now he works for Saren. And the Shadow Broker isn’t too happy about it.”

“Wait. Fist betrayed the Shadow Broker? That’s stupid,” she replied in her slight French accent. “Even for him. Saren must have made him quite the offer.”

“Which is why I’m thinking the quarian must have something Saren wants. Something worth crossing the Shadow Broker to get.”

“What else can you tell me about the quarian?” Shepard asked.

Dr. Michel shook her head, muttering something.

“Anything will help,” added Garrus, placing a clawed hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything. But, perhaps you can talk to Fist.”

“Right,” Shepard sighed, underwhelmed with the lack of intel. C-Sec arrived about fifteen minutes later, swarming the area in dark blue uniforms and glowing omnitools, retrieving three bodies in bags and a handcuffed criminal in a stretcher while Dr. Michel bandaged up Garrus’s arm. Her work was done here.

“Lieutenant Commander,” called out another turian. Younger. “I need a statement from you, ma'am.”

But as soon as her lips parted to speak, a deeper flanging voice cut in.

“The LC is on Alliance Navy business, Sergeant Haron. Like I said, this was an attempted robbery.”

The unflinching ability to lie in such a way— and to a superior, of all people — sent a chill up her spine. She saw Haron’s green eyes narrow. Did he buy it?

“Very well, Detective. Carry on. Excuse me, ma'am.”

As the Sergeant turned to leave, she felt a hand grab her clothed elbow and tow her outside of the clinic, a thickly gloved hand from which she instinctively pulled away.

“Did you just lie to your superior?” she whispered, her voice rising an octave in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he replied, making his way to the transport station. “And did you seriously consider sharing our intel with another C-Sec officer?”

Shepard squinted while she followed. The turian’s longer strides made keeping up with him a bit difficult.

“Listen, Shepard. This isn’t some Alliance utopia, okay? This is Zakera Ward. Spirits know how high the corruption— keep walking! — How high up the ladder the corruption goes.”

“Are you saying Haron is dirty?” She called up the transport back to Chora’s Den.

“Look, I like the Sarge just fine. But I don’t know. And until I know for sure how deep the rot goes, I can’t trust anybody.”

“But you’ll trust me?”

Instead of an answer, all she got was a throaty laugh which only served to confuse her even more. When the skycar arrived, they climbed in and buckled themselves in, with Garrus at the wheel.

“What’s so funny?”

“No offense, Shepard, but just look at you. You’re kinda like a book.”

 

* * *

 

 

If the Zakera Ward was dirty, Chora’s Den was a cesspool, infested with the lowest of bottom feeders and scumbags to live on the Citadel. Albeit bright with neon lights and the most attractive asari and human dancers, no amount of beautiful women could ever balance out the stench of sweat and hints of dead flesh impregnating the thick, recycled air. The club pulsed with a dark, primal rhythm and a whispering synth, while scantily clad dancers rolled their hips to the beat. A few girls had made their way onto the laps of customers, providing them a bit more of the stimulation they so obviously craved.

Shepard covered her wrinkling nose with her hand. She’d tolerated the smell, the noise, and the flashing lights long enough to talk to Harkin. She hadn’t expected to come back here twice in one day. Garrus, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered by the smell, the strobe lights nor the deafening bass. In fact, unlike other males in the club, didn’t seem at all fazed by the partially nude women winding their bodies for all to see.

“Fist is just behind those doors,” he said, pointing with a nod of his head.

Doors which just happened to have two krogan bodyguards.

“How are we supposed to get by the bouncers?”

The turian’s mandibles widened, exposing a mouth full of dagger-like teeth… The turian version of a smile, perhaps?

“I have my ways, Shepard. Just watch.”

Garrus strode over to one of the bouncers, the dim lighting shadowing his expressions and movements save for the glow of his omnitool. He waved it at the bouncer, showing him some kind of vid. From where she was standing she couldn’t quite make out what it was. Whatever it was made the bouncer charge at the other krogan, knocking him through the storage room wall. Two human guards immediately ran out, hoping to avoid the path of destruction. The turian’s brow plates rose a tad before he gestured at the broken doorway.

“After you.”

“What the hell did you show him, anyway?”

“C-Sec tries to keep tabs on non-council races here. I have a video of that guy with my buddy’s girlfriend. He was stupid to have gone and done that in broad daylight. There’s cameras everywhere. And, well… Wrex is a jealous guy.”

“I thought krogan shared their females.”

“Asari.”

Shepard hummed in amusement at the thought, while Garrus bypassed the lock on the door. She wouldn’t have thought to use something of the sort. Interesting.

“Why do I have to do everything myself?” a male voice grumbled from the other side. “Time to die, little soldiers!”

A droning hum and two clicks signaled a pair of GARDIAN turrets gearing up to fill the two of them up with bullets.

“Get down!” Garrus shouted.

The two fell to the ground with a thud. A fraction of a second later and they would have been swiss cheese. The turrets sprayed a barrage of bullets against the wall, some of which ricocheted and made deep holes in the flooring. Fortunately, they’d remained behind cover and Garrus had grabbed a pair of chairs as extra cover, just in case. And thankfully, too. The plush cushioning caught some of the decelerated bullets.

“I can only sabotage them one at a time,” he said. “Can you draw their fire, keep ‘em off me?”

Shepard nodded, clutching her Paladin close to her body. Once there was a break in fire, she peered around the corner. Two turrets, with the bad flattop on Fist’s head peeking out from between them. Coward. The woman rolled out of cover, firing three rounds at the left turret before ducking behind one of the couches. By the time they’d reloaded, Garrus poked his head around the corner and aimed his omnitool at the right turret, disabling it. The left was aimed at Shepard, so it merely took a few shots from his assault rifle to destroy them both.

“Come out with your hands up, Fist! It’s over,” she said.

“Go to hell!”

“Wrong answer,” Garrus murmured, readying a flashbang grenade before tossing it in his direction. A blinding light and a deafening screech and Fist was down. With the speed of a wildcat, he was on the human, aiming his pistol at his forehead. “Tell me where the quarian is and I won’t have to shoot you in the kneecaps.”

“She’s not here,” he cowered. “I don’t know where she is! That’s the truth!”

Garrus’ mandibles lay tight against his face.

“What do you think, Shepard? He’s no use to us now. I say we kill him,” he said, and she swore she saw him wink.

“Wait! Wait! I don’t know where the quarian is, but I know where you can find her. The quarian isn’t here. She said she’d only deal with the Shadow Broker himself.”

“Like he’d give away his identity so easily,” Shepard said.

“Exactly. Nobody meets the Shadow Broker. Ever. Even I don’t know his true identity. But she didn’t know that. I told her I’d set a meeting up. But when she shows up…” A pair of thin, scarred lips curved in a sadistic smile. “It’ll be Saren’s men waiting for her.”

“Son of a bitch,” she whispered.

Within a second, Garrus’ rifle was trained on Fist’s face. For a minute she was afraid he’d do it.

“You tell me where that meeting is before I blow your lying head off.”

“Here on the wards. Back alley by the markets. She’s supposed to meet them right now. You can make it if you hurry.”

“You better not be lying to me, or I’ll be back and replace that turret with your head.”

The thought of an impaled human head decorating what once had been a turret… She found it downright barbaric and so she thought it best to keep an eye on this turian, just in case. Rogue officers were nothing but trouble. Saren was proof enough of that.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Shepard and Garrus find the quarian, she comes with baggage. But Garrus has his own ideas of how to deal with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some in-game dialogue has been included.

_April 10 th, 2183— 9:45 pm_

 

Just as Fist had mentioned, the quarian was indeed at the Wards’ access, on the Zakera side. The low, red lighting disguised her companions’ faces enough that a scan would be unable to identify them.

“See that turian over there?” whispered her partner.

“Yeah?”

“Those markings on his face. He’s an Outsider. Born outside the Hierarchy. Eighty credits says he’s a merc.”

The clash between their cultures was stark enough without the facial tattoos. Even in the future, tattoos on the face were seen as something only people with bad judgment ever got done on purpose. Turians, however, seemed to take pride in their markings so much that they’d much rather get crap jobs done than to go barefaced. She remembered hearing that  _barefaced_ was considered an insult in the turian culture.

“Did you bring it?” asked the merc.

“Where’s the Shadow Broker?” the quarian demanded, her fidgety body language a testament to her distrust. “Where’s Fist?”

“They’ll be here.” One of his hands slithered down her arm in a way that even Shepard felt her own skin crawl. She was glad to see the young quarian smack it away immediately. “Where’s the evidence?”

“No way. The deal’s off.”

The two salarian commandos in the corner flashed their weapons, though they were too slow to avoid the quarian’s IED, the very bomb which blew off one of the merc’s legs. Shepard and Garrus took the chance to take them out. After the surprise explosion and the panic it unleashed, they neutralized the mercs in no time.

“Are you okay?” Garrus asked.

“Fist set me up. I should’ve known better than to trust that  _bosh'tet_.”

“We’re looking for evidence to prove Saren’s a traitor,” Shepard said. “We were told you might have access to it.”

“Who are you, anyway?” The quarian crossed her arms.

“I’m Lieutenant Commander Shepard, Alliance Navy. And this is Detective Garrus Vakarian, C-Sec. We’re investigating Saren Arterius.”

She stayed quiet for a few moments, and Shepard determined she was sizing them up.

“Fine. Then I have a chance to repay you for saving my life. But not here. We need to go somewhere safe.”

“We should take this to the human embassy, Shepard. Your ambassador would wanna see this, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

 

Even through the sealed door, Udina’s squawking, cantankerous voice resonated within Garrus’ sensitive ears, making his mandibles tighten against his face. Perhaps humans were indeed as diverse as they were rumored to be. Shepard seemed to be collected, phlegmatic, even, whereas Udina’s temper rivaled that of a krogan’s. A frightening little man he was.

When the lock flashed green, he saw the quarian move to enter the chamber.

“Wait,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “This evidence of yours… You sure it can put Saren behind bars?”

Though her face was hidden behind her mask, something within him told him her stare was one of confidence.

“Absolutely.”

“Then here’s what you’re gonna do: You’re new to the Citadel, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“I can’t help you directly, but the humans are soft on newcomers. So, ask for asylum and temporary resident status in exchange for the intel.”

Two pale, glowing eyes blinked through the mask.

“It’ll probably piss Udina off, but Anderson and Shepard seem reasonable enough. They need this. And you need somewhere safe to stay.” Then he motioned with his hand. “Now, go.”

The four corners of the doors slid open, revealing Anderson and Shepard flanking a shorter, older man with a pinched look on his face, which Garrus had come to know was permanent. He looked frail and gray, as if he could snap him like a dried out twig. The Ambassador waved his hand in a feeble excuse for a welcome.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Miss…?”

“Tali. Tali'Zorah nar Rayyah.”

He felt her glance at him, though he didn’t return it. Had he done so, they’d known this had been his doing.

“Before I give you the drive, I want asylum,” she stated. “And I want a temporary residence ID.”

Udina exclaimed some sort of human expletive, rubbing his temples as he paced up and down the chamber. Anderson was harder to read. His eyes had shut tightly for a few seconds, nostrils flaring wide in a deep intake of air. But, Shepard… Man, was she ever a book. The accusatory glare she’d pinned on him was almost physically painful, burning a hole through his plated skin. It was a struggle not to laugh at her expression.

“You can’t possibly think we simply hand those out to every vagrant—”

“— Fine,“ Anderson cut in. “Shepard, put in a priority request to Bailey.”

Both Udina and Shepard looked at their compatriot with their rubbery mouths gaping wide, though he imagined it was for different reasons.

“You can’t go over my head, Anderson!”

“The hell I can’t. This is Saren we’re talking about. Do you realize what a win for the Alliance this could be? Forget the rules. This is more important.”

“But, Sir—”

“— That was an order, Shepard.”

The human woman’s jaw was tight. For a second he wondered what protests were dammed up behind those clenched teeth of hers before he decided he didn’t care.

“… Yes, Sir.”

“Now, please,” sighed Anderson. “Continue.”

Tali queued up her omnitool to play a recording.

“ _Eden Prime was a victory. We are one step closer to gaining control over the Shadow Broker’s empire.”_

It seemed as soon as she heard the sound of the male turian voice on the recording, Shepard nearly leaped back to life, filled with enthusiasm.

“Sir, that is definitely Saren’s voice! This proves that he was involved in the attack!”

The captain didn’t look as thrilled, though. Instead, he palmed at his wide, square chin as if he were deep in thought.

“Doesn’t prove he killed Nihlus, though.”

“Wait,” Tali added. “There’s more.” A few taps of her fingertips replayed the conversation.

“ _Eden Prime was a victory. We are one step closer to gaining control over the Shadow Broker's empire.”_

“ _What about Nihlus?”_ asked a sultry female voice.

“ _They can’t trace him back to us. All they have is that human’s word against mine, a Spectre’s. I’ve seen her psych evals. There’s no way they’ll believe her.”_

“ _No. Not after that dent in the head.”_

He saw Shepard throw her arms up and scoff, impatient with the other two’s silence. He couldn’t help but crack a smile at the gesture.

“Well?” he asked. “Is this proof enough, Ambassador? Captain?”

 

* * *

 

Once the recording ended, there was an eerie, contemplative silence in the Council Chambers. Three Councilors surrounded her, the quarian, the turian, the Captain and Ambassador Udina. Sparatus’ mandibles were tightly packed against his face, though his olive-hued eyes wandered the floor as if in search for visible words. Valern seemed as disinterested as ever, an impassive look tugging at his sunken cheeks like gravity. On the other hand, Tevos couldn’t stop fidgeting, nostrils flared, jaw stiff, shifting her weight from one hip to another every fifteen seconds or so. But before Shepard could ask anything, the turian Councilor interrupted.

“This… This evidence is irrefutable, Ambassador,” he sighed. “Saren will be stripped of his Spectre status and all efforts will be made to bring him in to answer for his crimes. But, what about the woman on the tape? She didn’t sound turian.”

“It doesn’t matter right now. We have Saren,” Tevos answered, exchanging a glance with her fellow councilors. “Councilor Sparatus? I believe Officer Vakarian was originally on the case against Saren, was he not?” Blue fingers curled around the railing, knuckles pale from tension. “What say you?”

He nodded, returning his gaze over to the turian detective.

“I invoke my status as Councilor to reinstate Detective Vakarian as head of the investigation against Saren Arterius.”

“And Executor Pallin?” asked Garrus.

“He answers to us. We can override any of his decisions at any time.”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unfortunate event leaves Garrus in a vulnerable position. C-Sec Commissioner Chellick makes a shocking discovery.

_April 11 th, 2183 -  1:39 am_

 

Garrus Vakarian had decided to return to his apartment after a celebratory round of drinks and gambling at Flux before heading down to his studio apartment in the Wards. Despite it being cramped and bare— nothing like his parents’ home on Palaven— he had acquired it on his own and was, therefore, proud of it. Satisfied, more like. His forked toes stumbled over to the door. Why wouldn’t everything stop moving? He blinked his sleepy blue eyes behind his visor and held out an un-gloved hand to hover it over the red-tinted lock’s biometric sensor. But the thing wouldn’t budge.

“Stupid… piece of… crap,” he slurred. The last thing he felt like doing was calling his landlord, or worse, Chellick to tell him he was locked out of his own apartment and to grovel for help.

Perhaps it was his inebriated condition that had initially masked the strange scent of motor oil, but he was without a doubt getting it now. The plates across his nasal bridge wrinkled as he tried to get a better sense of the smell coming from his flat. The unnatural smell of plastic. Acrid rubber. And something else…

Another turian. Turians had this metallic quality to their natural odor, a sharp top note over a base of warm earthy— unmistakable to the deep, grassy, gamy scent he attributed to humans and asari.

_No, wait._

There was a human scent, too.

His apartment had been tampered with. Of this he was sure. He pulled his hand away.

_Bleep! Tic-tic-tic-tic-tic…_

A bomb.

He whispered the word to himself, if only to convince himself this wasn’t a nightmare. This was real. And if this was real, so would the pain and/or death awaiting him and his neighbors.

“Bomb!” he shouted, taking a false running start to the left, then to the right. Where would he be furthest away? What about the neighbors? “Bomb! Bomb! There’s a bomb!” His heart hammered against the inside of his plated chest so hard he swore he could hear it.

_Tic-tic-tic-tic…_

_BOOM._

 

* * *

 

When Shepard arrived on the scene, she only saw chaos. Bright flames licking at the cool night air like tongues, adorning the building like a crown. Ambulances and C-Sec officers were scattered throughout, sifting and pulling survivors from the rubble while others attempted to put out the embers. She’d received the call not ten minutes ago before she’d opted to throw on a hoodie over her pajamas and rushed over. Her hair hadn’t received the same basic attention, her dark, thick curls loose, messy and large over her petite frame. Normally, her eyes would be glued shut at this hour, but the burst of shock and anxiety made sure she was up and alert.

“Vakarian!” she called, hugging the sweatshirt close to her body in attempt to calm herself.

Her eyes darted about the place. Humans, turians everywhere. None were her partner. Dread ran through her veins like ice. Why did all her partners die? Was it her fault?

Smoke. There was so much smoke. It made her eyes sting. Yelling and sirens blaring in her ear. So many bright lights.

Oh, God. Where was Garrus? Was he dead?

“Lieutenant Commander Shepard?” called a flanging voice, a third of an octave too high to belong to her partner. The white markings over pewter-colored plates confirmed it. “Commissioner Chellick.”

“Where’s Vakarian?” She silently cursed at the slightest crack in her voice.

“The detective is fine. He’s over there.” He pointed at an ambulance with his chin. “He’s got a broken wrist and a few scrapes, but he’ll be fine.”

Garrus’ arm was bandaged up and in a sling while an EMT applied medigel over a gash on his face, oozing with blue. She didn’t think twice before running toward him. The ambulance’s harsh light illuminated him from behind like some sort of ethereal aura, something she found interesting, considering he’d nearly just died.

“Were you worried, Shepard? I’m touched.”

“I can’t lose another partner,” she said. “People will think I’m turian kryptonite.”

He tilted his head.

“What the hell is kryptonite?”

“It’s a pop culture reference,” Chellick chimed in as he made his way to lean on the side door. “An ultimate weakness. She doesn’t want people to think she’s jinxed. Can we talk about this incident now?”

Garrus hummed in understanding.

“Someone definitely broke into my apartment.”

“You know this how?”

“I smelled them. There was at least one turian and one human. Both male.”

Shepard nodded absentmindedly while she rearranged the pieces in her mind.

“Could it have been Saren?” she asked.

“I dunno. I’ve never been close enough to the bastard to identify his stench.”

“What about Fist?”

Beady ice blue eyes fluttered as he tried to recall, but to no avail. Garrus shook his head.

“I dunno. I really don’t know. Everything just kinda happened all at once and…”

As he was still talking, she detected some odd movement from the corner of her eye. It wasn’t frantic like those of the victims, nor measured and swift like those of the first responders. It was shaky, hesitant. She turned to look only to make eye contact with the man she had interrogated earlier.

“Sonnuvabitch,” she whispered. She saw him jump back and begin to retreat like a guilty child and her legs sprung into action, racing around the scene much like an obstacle course, vaulting over large roadblocks, skirting around unsuspecting officers. “Hey, you! Stop right there!”

As if criminals ever listened to that warning.

Shepard drew her Paladin from its holster and fired off a warning shot.

“Alliance Navy! I said stop!”

Down on the street, Kithoi Ward seemed more like a maze than a residential ward with an endless amount of alleyways and catwalks, worsened by the funhouse-like mirrored glass panels over commercial buildings.

The loud cracking of another gun sent her flying to cover. Her pajama bottoms ripped with a loud crack as they snagged on the pavement. Her knee stung. Whenever she moved it, she felt fabric sticking to it. Her lips uttered a curse as she caught her breath, painful, burning, her heart threatening to make its escape through her throat.

_That bastard._ She’d let him go. She had even been planning to stop Garrus, had he attempted to kill him. And now… This was her fault.

Peering around the corner during a break in fire, she saw the back of Fist’s head as he retreated into an alley. If she was lucky, he’d hit a dead end. Getting back on her feet, she followed him as quickly as her legs would take her.

It was as if the powers that be were smiling down on her: A dead end.

He still had the back of his head facing her, though he appeared to be looking up.

“It’s over, Fist. Put your hands behind your head and get on the floor.”

A second passed. Two… Five.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered with a staggering voice, a tone speaking of fear. “He was gonna kill me. He was gonna kill my family if I didn’t…”

“Who? The Shadow Broker?”

Fist slowly turned toward her, arms up in a surrendering gesture. His eyes were wide, visibly bloodshot even in the shadows, brimming over with tears.

“Please. My family. Save my—“

_Bang!_

Crimson drops sprayed over her face before she could register what was happening. One moment she’d been talking to Fist and the next she was wondering where half his skull had gone while he collapsed in a puddle of blood.

A bright light. A flashlight?

Whatever it was, it had shot her suspect and, as far as she knew, was aiming to shoot at her. So she aimed her gun, eyes squinting, and fired a single shot.

The lights faded out.

_Thud._

Now she could finally catch her breath. She glanced over at what remained of Fist’s face, making a permanent mental note of the sadness tinging his features, even at death. His family. He’d begged her to protect his family. Yet, she had no idea who’d had him killed, though there were two suspects ranking high on her list.

At the thumping sound of hurried footsteps, she turned to see Chellick arriving on the scene with two other officers.

One of which was the injured Garrus Vakarian.

“What the hell happened here, LC?”

Shepard slid a hand over her blood-spattered features and, upon seeing her stained hand, shuddered. Had it gotten in her mouth?

“A second perp,” she said, gesturing with her lips. “From the rooftop. I shot ‘im. Landed in that dumpster over there.”

Chellick and the other officer walked around the human corpse. Behind her, she could hear the metal dumpster screech against the concrete as they moved it.

“Spirits, Shepard. Your knee. Is it broken?”

“It’s a scratch. Human knees naturally bend this way.”

His eyes narrowed in a squint, following the tear in her pants’ leg.

“Looks like I owe you a pair of pants, huh?”

“You don’t owe me —“

“—Spirits. It can’t be.”

Both she and Garrus turned at the commissioner’s outburst.

“There’s no way this would have gotten past customs.”

Curiosity had replaced the adrenaline once coursing through each vein, saturating every fiber of her being. She couldn’t resist. She side-stepped over the corpse and poked her head in the rusted, steel dumpster.

Her blood ran cold again.

A metallic body, threaded with thick wires, and a shattered light for a head.

“Geth.”

 

* * *

 

“I said I had nothing to do with it!” The quarian sunk back into her chair, arms crossed with indignation.

“And you expect us to believe that? You realize it was your people who created the geth in the first place?” Garrus pressed on, leaning over the table on his uninjured arm. “Who better than a quarian to sneak an AI into the Citadel?”

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” she countered, smacking both hands over the table. “That’s like blaming you, personally, for the genophage and the Relay 314 Incident!”

“She’s got you there, Vakarian.”

He flung a menacing snarl at his human partner. In his opinion, she was often more trouble than she was worth.

“What? What did I say?”

“Shepard. Just… shut up for a minute. Just shut up,” he muttered, rubbing his temporal plates with his thumbs and taking a deep, calming breath. “Listen, Tali. I wanna believe you. I really do. But you gotta help me out here.” Each of his slow, measured footfalls reverberated against the metal walls. “Help me understand. Because we’ve got an entire block of hacked cameras on Kithoi Ward. So, convince me.”

“It wasn’t me! It couldn’t have been me,” she insisted, a frantic voice keening through the glowing communicator on her mask. “I was still going through customs. Just ask that officer… Bentley. Barley?”

“Bailey,” Shepard corrected. “You know he’s distrusting of aliens. If he was with her, he would’ve been watching her every move.”

Garrus had to make extra effort not to point out that, to him, she was an alien, that alien was subjective, that humans could be aliens, too, depending on who you asked.

“Check in with him for me, will ya?”

The human gave a curt nod before disappearing through the door.

“She’s… odd, isn’t she?” Tali asked.

His brow plates briefly rose and he sighed in exasperation, shaking his head.

“She’s… interesting. Let’s put it that way,” he conceded, taking a seat before the quarian. His claws absentmindedly shuffled some paper “Now, explain it to me. You were with Bailey?”

“Yes. He was working on moving me to a safe house on the Presidium. He’d just found me a place to sleep for the night when I got pulled back in here.”

As much compassion as he wanted to show, someone had just attempted to kill him, causing him to lose everything he owned. Every gun, every mod, all his clothes, his bed, his privacy… Lack of sleep was probably the last problem on his list in that moment. He ended the interrogation not minutes later, filing the papers away in their respective folders before attempting to rub the exhaustion off his face. It didn’t work.

“Bailey confirmed the quarian’s story. Someone else hacked those cameras,” he heard Shepard’s matte, contralto voice say.

He only hummed in recognition.

“You okay?”

“I’m tired, Shepard, okay? I wanna turn in for the night. And I can’t.” A twinge of remorse immediately pulled at his heart, feeling a hint of guilt for snapping at her. But when he turned to look at her, he only saw her pawing through some files, seemingly unaffected. Perhaps it was good that she was so odd for a human. Any other human hothead would have yelled at him for whining and insulted his ancestors’ ancestors and whatever spirits turians believed in.

The door leading to the main office slid open. Chellick strolled in with that cocksure bounce in his step. Garrus couldn’t figure out whether he respected or hated the guy.

“Get some rest, detective. You get sloppy when you’re cranky.”

“Is there somewhere C-Sec can put me for the night? I think my place is a little too scorched and smoky for my taste.”

“We’re not paying for a room at Azure.”

He arched his brow plates.

“I didn’t even know that was an option.”

“It’s not.”

Garrus flapped his mouth open but he soon found he had no comeback for that at all.

“Your partner can’t put you up for the night?”

“ _NO,”_ they said in a choral unison.

The commissioner rumbled out a bemused laugh.

“Why can’t he go stay with the quarian?”

“What?” What in the hell was Shepard thinking?

“I don’t have dextro stuff,” she continued. “Dextro food, dextro soap…”

_Soap? Dextro soap? Really, Shepard?_

“You both eat the same stuff, anyway.”

“Hey, now, just wait a damn minute—"

Commissioner Chellick’s laughter only increased over their bickering and it only served to further irritate the newly-homeless turian. Just one punch to the face and maybe getting almost-blown-up would be worth it.

“Then, it’s settled. LC, can you take up a turian in need? Turiankind would be indebted to humanity,” he joked, though Garrus knew Shepard wouldn’t get it and, instead, take him seriously. “Don’t worry. We’ll, uh… supply the dextro soap.”

A glimmer of indecision lit up the human’s face.

“Well…” She sighed deeply, her soft brows furrowing with determination. “In that case, yes. But just for tonight.”

“Spirits,” he swore under his breath, touching the palm of his hand to his forehead. Were he ever to outrank Chellick in the future, he made a note to get back at him. Maybe he’d leak his personal info to one of those preaching hanar and tell them he was interested in learning about the Enkindlers. Bastard. Garrus’ blue eyes narrowed at Chellick’s retreating form, the very one heard cackling from the hallway.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus hates being Shepard's roommate. Councilor Tevos reveals a surprising connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that warning about mature, triggering themes? This is it. The memories and language used here may be upsetting to some. The views of the characters do not reflect those of the author’s. Reader discretion advised.

_April 11 th, 2183— 9:43 pm_

 

Garrus Vakarian plopped down on the couch with a single, unsettled shudder, clutching the stark white sheets he’d borrowed from Shepard, around his half-naked body. He had no qualms about nudity: 1) turians weren’t as puritanical about naked bodies as they didn’t always view nudity as sexual, and 2) both he and Shepard often had to strip and suit up along their squadmates in enclosed rooms. But from the way she’d stared at him while he’d been eating the microwavable dextro meal she’d bought him, and the way she gawked at him as he’d come out of the shower with a cold, clinical gleam in her eye, he felt safe to assume she hadn’t spent too much time with other turians before. When she’d inquired whether the fawn-colored hide between his plates was fuzzy or not and then pontificated on an evolutionary hypothesis, his answer had been:

“ _Then, why don’t_ you  _strip for me so I can study_ you?”

Her face had turned the color of the sands of Mars. He’d learned from C-Sec colleagues that humans tended to turn red when embarrassed and, the lighter the color of their hide, the more noticeable it was. When he’d seen her blush, he’d immediately regretted it, wondering whether she’d taken it as sexual harassment.

“ _Yeah. Feels bad, doesn’t it? That’s how you’re making me feel,”_ he’d said before inquiring about the washer/dryer.

His long legs were currently sprawled across the sofa, the towel covering up to his knees and the sheets wrapped around his nude torso while he waited for his clothes to dry. If he’d been home, he would have been happy to prance around in the nude, to eat a homecooked meal prepared by none other than himself and eat it on his own couch, legs spread comfortably, scratching himself wherever the hell he pleased, whenever he pleased. But all of that was gone, singed to a crisp, brittle, useless. A dual-toned groan rumbled in his throat at the thought.

Flashing orange lighting alerted him he’d received a message on his personal terminal. When he opened the message in his omnitool, he saw it was that damned commissioner again.  _What now, Chellick?_

_Vakarian,_

 

_I need you both down here ASAP. Captain Anderson got a lead on Saren._

 

_\- Chellick_

 

When the timer went off on the dryer, he uttered a quick thanks to the Spirits and got himself dressed. The soap’s artificial floral scent made the inside of his nostrils burn, though comparing it to Bailey’s aftershave— whatever the hell that was — it wasn’t too bad. Then again, the flowery scent plus the earthy scent of human skin inevitably stuck to the fibers of his clothes would likely make him the object of every turian’s derision in C-Sec. He smelled like Shepard: like wet soil, petrichor, and those citrus flowers they had on the Presidium. Another groan spilled from his lips as he tried to shake the thoughts loose from his head. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered except catching Saren, humiliating him and making him pay.

A quick rap of his knuckles on her door produced no effect. Silence. Maybe she was asleep. As soon as he probed his head in the room to check, though, he saw that his theory had only been half true. A small body shifted about underneath a crinkled comforter, a mass of dark hair spilling from the top. Her fists were balled up tightly with snow-white knuckles, a blueish-purple aura crackling around them. Her hide— or skin, or whatever —was covered in glistening beads of what appeared to be water, though it smelled more of rage and panic and guilt and violence.

Shepard was having a nightmare.

“Hey,” he crooned, still at the doorway.

Blunt, clear fingernails clawed into the peach-colored duvet, breathing staccato, dark brows furrowed together. Her mouth parted to mumble a pathetic cry that his translator was unable to pick up.

“Shepard. Wake up.”

Her head lurched to the side, a wave of fuzzy black curls crashing over her face.

“Shepard!”

A second and a half was all it took for Garrus to realize that touching Shepard— even if done so firmly and on the shoulder — was a near-fatal mistake, as he soon found himself looking up at her and the ceiling as her background, his crest scraping the headboard and her fingers, glowing with murderous biotic energy, digging around the soft tissue over his windpipe. The usual gold in her eyes had gone black with adrenaline, as if he were staring into the edge of the universe, the vacuum of dark space sucking up the words from his mind and tongue.

“Shepard!” he yelled again, voice dry. “It’s me, Shepard!”

How had she flipped him? He was a turian, an apex predator of the galaxy, covered with thick, natural armor, his senses— senses of sight, smell, and sight, at least — were hundreds of times sharper than any squishy, hairy ape’s. And yet here he was, trapped between her thighs, at the mercy of her many, blunt fingertips. It would be easy to grab her huge, fuzzy crest with one hand and slit her throat with a single claw on his spare hand. But, if he didn’t find a way to calm her down, and she chose to employ her biotics, she’d break through his plating before he could realize it, and she could definitely rip his throat out through the softer hide lining his cowl.

“Anderson is waiting for us,” he croaked, swallowing hard. “We gotta go.”

Much to Garrus’ relief, the panting woman straddling him began to loosen her stubby fingers from his neck, dilated pupils shrinking as the rush slowly drained out of her body, and he couldn’t help sigh at his regained ability to breathe. The mattress creaked as she got up. He saw her slump over the sink, heard the hiss of the sink, the soft squelch of water being splashed over her face.

He took that opportunity and left the bedroom, making as little noise as possible before he heard her say:

“Give me a minute.”

 

* * *

 

 

Even with Captain Anderson’s booming tenor voice echoing the room, even with the sweeping hand gestures he made over the brightly lit holographic galaxy map, Jennifer Shepard found herself distracted, the incessant chatter of her jumbled thoughts stopping up her ears and rendering all outside noise as a droning, deaf hum. She’d had that soul-shaking nightmare more than an hour ago and she still felt its aftershocks running through her mind, behind her eyelids, over her skin and in her blood.

“What the hell are you doing, kid? You’re bleeding!”

At the sudden change in pitch, she looked down at herself. She’d been digging her fingernails into her forearm so hard, she’d cut herself. She slapped a cupped hand over the scratch and dismissed Anderson’s concern, insisting she was fine and that it wouldn’t even need medigel. He, in turn, only gave her one of those narrow-eyed looks, the kind he’d give her whenever she’d say something they both knew was complete bullshit.

“Anyway,” he continued, “We’ve narrowed it down to the last three places Saren was spotted: Feros, Noveria, and Therum.”

“Feros. That makes sense. The Traverse is a nice place for scum to hide. But they’ve also got 387,000 regulations that say we can’t do anything about it.”

The older human’s lips flattened in a straight line, one knuckle against his chin and the opposite hand supporting his elbow.

“It’s still nowhere as bad as Noveria. But Feros’ ExoGeni facility seems like a good place to start. Agreed?” he asked, glancing at Shepard for approval.

She had no qualms about it. Both she and Garrus’d had a long day and, while she was itching to solve the crime, she hadn’t exactly had much time to investigate— nor sleep, even. The hypercritical nerve lying in wait within her twinged painfully: If only she had caught Fist alive, if only she’d gotten there before Saren shot a hole through Nihlus’ head, if only she’d drank more coffee earlier and stayed up to help Anderson.

She headed over to the break room, poured herself a mug of black coffee. Bitter, watery, burnt. It offended her taste buds, but she rendered her consumption a need, more than for pleasure. She pulled a chair away from its table on the far corner of the room, grinding her teeth at the shrill sound of metal against tile, at the annoying vibrations traveling through her arm. She took a seat and sipped on her muddy water, thankful for the silence.

Well, until a few loud, rowdy C-Sec officers decided present themselves for “good ol’ ribbing”, or whatever it was people did.

“— I’m telling ya, she’s like a fuckin’ robot,” a male laughed from outside the door. “One time I said something about my vacation in London and she started spouting off facts about the Thames and shit.”

“She could still kick your ass, though,” replied a female.

The door slid open and a tall, balding, middle-aged human walked in with a smirk, an unamused female she recognized as the Customs Officer working under Captain Bailey and another male, blond, with a similar uncomfortable look. Shepard was just thankful they didn’t notice her. Maybe she could get away unnoticed.

That was, until Garrus showed up and made his way to the carafe.

“My question is, didn’t we wipe out  _retards_  with gene therapy? Like, your momma could just fix that shit up before popping you out, right?”

“Your mother obviously missed something with you, Harkin. You’re more of a giant, walking asshole than a human.” the Customs Officer said.

“It was a legitimate question!” he insisted. “Gene therapy is a thing!” He turned toward the blond man and made a snapping gesture with his palm as if he were punctuating something. “Lang, you know what I mean, right? Your, uh— what was it? Sister? She was gonna have to wear glasses and shit.”

Lang rubbed the back of his neck and avoided eye contact.

“Yeah, sure. Glasses. But, I really don’t think—”

“—And they just let her loose in the galaxy, representing humanity like some sort of social justice charity case. All because the bitch’s momma ain’t get her brain fixed.”

She could feel Garrus’ eyes burning over her skull, but she wouldn’t look at him. Not if he was going to pity her. That was the last thing she wanted, the last thing she needed. She already knew she was considered an alien among her own species. She felt the stares lingering on her skin after each conversation she ended prematurely, after every cue she’d apparently failed to pick up.

“My parents were farmers,” she finally said. By the way the humans flinched at her voice, they hadn’t even known she was there. “We were poor. And I’m autistic. Retarded isn’t even an accepted medical term anymore and it’s not even the same thing.”

Harkin said nothing in reply, but she saw him roll his eyes and purse his lips.

“Excuse me,” she said, before leaving the room. Coming down here had been a mistake. Had Anderson come to save her because he’d felt sorry for her? Was that why he’d sent her to N-School, why he’d paid for the L5n prototype implants, why he took her along to every mission? Pity? No, what sense did that make?  _No. No, no, no. Just forget about it._

“I’ve seen her punch a hole through a metal floor before, Harkin. If you were smart, you’d stop talking,” purred a familiar baritone voice. “Though I’d pay a million creds to see her snap you in half with her bare hands.”

“Now there’s a satisfying thought,” the woman chimed in.

“Oh, fuck off. All of ya.”

When the doors to the main office slid apart, she’d been expecting Bailey or Chellick. Instead, she got Garrus, still holding his mug in his hand. He took a casual sip.

“Eating and drinking outside of the break room and personal desks is against C-Sec protocol,” she said.

“How the hell do you even know that?”

Shepard pointed at a sheet of paper tacked to a bulletin board. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and chugged the rest of it before giving her an unwanted view of his empty, toothy mouth and long, dark blue tongue.

“Happy? Now, did you get that message from the Councilor?”

“What message?”

Another figure walked into the room. Anderson.

“Kid, I know you hate tech, but you’ve gotta answer your personal terminal. It’s part of your job. Councilor Tevos wants to see us before we leave.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The asari matron paced about her chambers, high heels clicking, a hand slithering to needlessly smooth down her parted scalp. Her bottom lip was tucked under her upper, white-marked lip, pinched like the general feeling in the room. Garrus heard her suck in a quick breath before delivering her request in her usual low, diplomatic tone.

“I find myself in the humbling position of asking the Alliance for help,” she began, two indigo hands clasped together over her lap. “And you too, Detective. And I need you to understand that this is a sensitive matter.”

The arrogant asari councilor, begging for assistance, in a position of complete vulnerability. That she was asking the Alliance was proof enough of her desperation. How satisfying.

“My daughters were both kidnapped three years ago. One hadn’t even entered her maiden stage yet.” A violet tongue swiped over her cracked lips. “I’ve been working day and night ever since to bring them back home. And I’d found nothing until I reached out…” He detected her voice catching in her throat, as if the information itself was too much. “I reached out to the Shadow Broker.”

“That was a bad move,” Shepard blurted out, causing Anderson to nudge her with his elbow. She arched her eyebrows for a microsecond but said nothing more, choosing to stand at ease like the posterchild for the Navy.

“I know. But after three years, he finally gave me a lead: Saren.” Her steely eyes swept across her audience of three. “The woman in the recording. She’s a double agent for the Asari Republic: Matriarch Benezia. She’s… — I hired her to investigate for me.”

“Did she go rogue, too?” Garrus asked.

Tevos shook her head.

“She used to report to me at the end of each week. The last time she sent me a vidcom, she didn’t make any sense. When the attack on your apartment happened, I realized it was some sort of code. I believe she thinks Saren is on to her.”

“So?” Anderson asked. “What do you want us to do about it? You probably know more than we do.”

“I’m pulling Benezia, but her terminal has been disconnected since the bombing. None of my agents can find her. Not even the Shadow Broker. But… — and here is where I really need discretion — I own a few assets within the Human Alliance System. Three eezo mines.”

“I don’t get it. Why does that matter?” Garrus shrugged a shoulder, arms crossed.

“Because it is a violation of Council Law for a councilor to conduct business outside of Council Space.”

“I still don’t understand why you think we should help you,” Shepard said. Her voice betrayed no anger, but he detected a twinge of sadness in it. “You’re a slave-owning criminal. And if you had just taken time to decode your spy’s message, Detective Vakarian would still have an apartment and hundreds of people in Kithoi Ward would be alive. People you, as a Councilor, swore to protect.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Anderson place his brown palm over his face, heard him sigh out his vanishing patience with Shepard, with the Council, with the eternal quagmire lingering like a bad stench around the Citadel.

“I hired a team of scientists to study one of my eezo mines. The eezo is inactive and I’m paying them to figure out why. —Well, I was, until someone kidnapped them. The only one left is Dr. Liara T'Soni. I need you to search for her and rescue her.”

“Yeah… I’m still not getting why the hell we should help you,” Garrus replied.

“Dr. T'Soni is Matriarch Benezia’s daughter. She’ll know where to find her. And where you find Benezia, you’ll find Saren Arterius.”

 

* * *

 

_April 11 th, 2183— 11:23 pm_

 

Shepard found the wait between the request for departure and take off to be unnecessarily long, often wondering whether the officers at Citadel flight control took the so-called “pre-flight” checks to mean “break time”. The plastic on her garment bag crackled as she set it down on the top bunk in the crew quarters. The last of her personal belongings that she considered essential: her dress blues, two extra pairs of fatigues, three under-armor suits, several clean pairs of underwear, and an outdated datapad full of old books and a few reference materials.

Since their meeting with Tevos, she’d decided to remain quiet. The sharp stench of smoke lingered in her nostrils, though whether it was damage she’d received at the scene of the attack or her nightmares wreaking havoc on her psychosomatic nerves, she wasn’t sure. Whenever she’d close her eyes, she’d still see the flames engulfing the farmhouse, echoing with gunshots, echoing with blood-curdling screams for mercy, echoing with her parents’ disappointment and the cry of a colicky baby and her sister’s melodious laughter. Whenever she saw fire, whenever she got close to its prickly heat, she was suddenly there on Mindoir, hearing her mother screaming for help, seeing her buck and shiver beneath a batarian slaver’s thrusting body, watching the life drain out of father’s eyes with every spurt of blood leaving his broken lips. She was there again, feeling the cool, dew-kissed grass under the soles of her bare feet as she ran, gripping the negligible weight of Melissa’s little hand. She was there again, trying to rip the sweaty alien off and out of her fragile body. She was there again, her shaky hands aiming the gun at the slaver’s head and pulling the trigger, the kickback ripping through the tendons in her slender wrists. She was on Mindoir again, the one place to which she never wanted to return, the source of all her guilt, her fears, her insecurities.

“You okay there, Shepard?” she heard Garrus ask from the bottom bunk.

She thumbed at her nose. Again. Once more.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, climbing down to the floor. She kept her gaze on the floor. “I am sorry for earlier.”

“What are you talking about?” The turian raised a brow plate, tilted his head 35 degrees over toward his right.

“I attacked you earlier. I didn’t mean… I mean, I  _did_ , but I didn’t know it was you. And I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Instead of the trite “don’t worry about it” she’d been expecting, she heard the low thunder of an amused chuckle rolling in his throat.

“I gotta say… For such a short, squishy alien, you pack a punch.” He reached up to his neck and rubbed at it. “Crap, I’d bet money on you any day. I started to think you’d really snap my neck.”

“I said I was sorry,” she insisted. “I wouldn’t hurt a fellow crewmate. That’s against Navy Regulation 600-20, paragraph 4-14d, under Article 92.”

Garrus groaned and his mandibles and brows drooped.

“What I’m saying is that I’m surprised. If we were on a turian ship… Well, I mean, human and turian ships are run so differently— more operational discipline, fewer personal restrictions.” The pale cerulean in his eyes glittered with nostalgia. “We have full-contact sparring sessions. Well-supervised, of course. Nobody’s gonna risk an injury that interferes with the mission… Anyway, if we were on a turian, I’d definitely bet on you. Hell, I’d spar with you myself.”

Shepard gazed back at him, slack-jawed, amazed and intrigued by the stark differences between their cultures.

The muffled trill of opening doors signaled Anderson’s arrival. He held out his hand, containing a rectangular package. Brown paper wrapping. Neatly folded and tucked edges. Not heavy enough to be a weapon, she realized when she took it in her own hands. Light enough to be…

_Yes._

“Wanted to get that to you before midnight. Happy twenty-ninth, kid.”

Her fingers made shreds of the wrapping and the corner of her mouth curled up at the sight of the model kit for the Normandy SR-1.

“I’ve been wanting this since the Normandy was built,” she murmured in awe before her eyes flickered back at the smiling captain. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” Garrus interrupted. “What am I missing here? Twenty-ninth what?”

“Birthday,” Anderson said, and then he turned to leave, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Try to get some rest. We got a long day tomorrow.”

Carefully the woman removed every single piece and lay them on the desk, scrutinizing every part to assure it was complete. When she was satisfied, she returned them to the box just as carefully. She hadn’t even noticed Garrus had been staring at her until he spoke.

“Today was your birthday? Crap, Shepard. You should’ve told me. We could’ve, I dunno, gone out for drinks or something.”

“Why?” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Anderson always makes a big deal out of it. But I don’t get it, myself.”

“Aren’t birthdays a big, human…  _thing_ , though?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t mean I understand why.” Once the model pieces were put away, she placed the package inside her footlocker and sighed happily, a satisfied curve to her lips.

“Well, damn. Seems we finally have something in common.”

He chuckled as if his incomplete statement should have been something obvious to her, but he never finished it and she didn’t inquire any further.

“Good night, Vakarian,” she said, more out of panic and pressure to say something polite than anything.

Once again, he laughed.

“Yeah. Good night, Shepard. I’ll try not to wake you up this time.”


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search and rescue mission becomes SNAFU. Dr. T'Soni reveals the mystery behind the inactive element zero.

_April 13 th, 2183— 6:25 am_

 

“Finally, someplace warm!” Garrus sighed as they stepped into the Mako and drove onto Therum’s volcanic surface.  "Can I switch roommates with someone? Shepard keeps the room just above freezing.”

Shepard didn’t feel like replying to that. Not only was the freezing point 32 degrees and  _not_ 68, but she was convinced Therum was the incarnation of that “hell” so often mentioned in human mythology. Even through the scrubbers on her respirator and oxygen mask, she could smell and taste the eggy scent of sulfur lingering in the thin atmosphere. She was at least grateful for the type of moisture-wicking fabric her undersuit was made of; otherwise, she would have been a sweaty, uncomfortable mess too frazzled for a search and rescue mission.

“We got company,” she heard Anderson mutter.

Five soldiers, about 300 meters away, according to the radar.  _The entrance to the mine must be close by,_  she thought. The grip on her Paladin tightened. If Garrus could snipe the one furthest away, Anderson could distract the ones near him with a spray of bullets. Then in the brief seconds they’d cluster together to get into cover, she could charge with her biotics, take at least two down, neutralize them with a nova blast, and, while the remaining one stumbled away from the wave she’d fire off a few shots and finish him with hand-to-hand while her shields came back online. But this was only if it went off the way she imagined it.

“What’s the plan, Sir?”Shepard asked.

“We get off here, while we’re still on higher ground. Vakarian, behind the Mako. Take as many of them down as possible. Quietly.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’ll take point.” The older man finally looked at her. “Shepard. Once we each take one down, get in there and finish them.”

Her mouth tilted in a smirk.

“Roger that.”

Garrus’ sniper went off with a muffled whoosh, leaving a hostile’s head a mere dribbling stump. The rest of the grunts’ heads snapped toward their fallen forward before they began to scatter to cover. There was a blinking disk in Anderson’s hand, a frag grenade. It soared through the air and hit the ground with a thundering boom. Body parts rained over the field.

Time to trigger her mnemonics. She inhaled, flicked her forefinger against her palm, waited for the heated rush of dark energy to course through her veins. It bloomed in her joints where her implants lay hidden, and crept out to her limbs, settling at her fingertips and toes… But something was off. Normally, she’d feel the sizzle of her own energy overflowing from her limbs. Now… there was just heat and tension.

“Shepard!” Anderson yelled. “Go!”

As a good marine should, she switched on her Sentry Interface’s infrared scanner and sprang into action, charging at the center of the pack. Her target’s head impacted against the rocky ground. Feet leaving the ground, she flicked her thumb against a knuckle, gathering her shields to deliver her coup de main between the corpse and her next victim, effectively toppling him over. She no longer heard the sharp crack of her teammates’ weapons but saw blood spurt from a fresh gunshot wound.  _Cooldown over in three…_ She grabbed her pistol. Aimed it.  _Two._ Shot the still vertical hostile in the foot. He rolled over before she could get him on the shoulder.  _One._ Her hands warmed up again, surging with blue-violet energy. A single twitch of her finger and it enveloped her fist. It collided with his jaw with a sickening snap, leaving the soldier, dressed in white, limp.

“ _…pard!”_

A loud pop made pain shoot through her arm and her remaining shields fizzle. She spotted the shooter, called up her biotic charge.

And nothing.

Something was wrong and it left her frazzled for a few seconds. Her biotics were taking longer to cool down with each use.

“Move, Shepard!” she heard a flanging voice say.

Her knees hit the ground. Two muffled shots and she saw the soldier fall dead on the spot.

“What the hell just happened?” Anderson’s booming voice demanded as the man approached her, assault rifle in hand.

“I don’t know.” Flexing her hands and fingers, she stared down at them, puzzled. “It’s like something’s dampening my biotics…”

“Might be related to that inactive eezo the Councilor was talking about,” suggested the turian.

Biotics and eezo were connected, in a sense. Current studies showed a percentage of fetuses exposed to element zero went on to develop biotic abilities outside the womb, though for many, they were not permanent. Small electric currents from the brain would react with the present eezo, producing dark energy. So, for it to counteract the effects of such a reaction… No, she had no clue.

When they approached the mine shaft, they found it to be poorly guarded: A single white-clad soldier at the elevator, and a few scattered around the actual mine. No discipline, no coordination. She figured they must have been mercenaries. A few abandoned pre-fabs littered the mine’s interior. Lone microscopes sat on dusty, blood-spattered countertops, shattered glass and tools spread all across the floor. Whatever the scientists had found in this mine was valuable enough for someone to go through all the trouble of going to a hellish, pre-garden world inside a poorly-lit, crumbling mine, slaughtering an entire team of scientists and their bodyguards, and then staying to guard it.

“Dr. T'Soni?” Shepard called out into the yawning void. “Alliance Navy.”

“C'mon, Shepard. She’s spent at least a week cooped up Spirits-know-where, trying not to make a sound. I doubt she’ll just decide to pop up and say, ‘Hi!'”

“How long can asari survive without food?” she asked.

Garrus’ nasal plates scrunched together. His voices echoed as he spoke.

“How am I supposed to know that? I failed the C-Sec xenobiology course the first time I took it.”

That had not been the answer she needed. She needed to know if there was still a chance she was alive. Fortunately, her blank stare seemed to have been enough to prompt him to speak.

“Crap… I’d imagine the same as one of you since your species are both so… doughy.”

She saw Anderson pat him on the shoulder. She kept rummaging through the rubble, going through storage bin after storage bin, hoping this trip hadn’t been for nothing.

“It’s a good thing you don’t date humans. Most wouldn’t let a comment like that go.”

“But humans don’t have plates,” she said, still immersed in her search. “We have subcutaneous fat. We’re gelatinous in comparison. Why would that be offensive to anyone?”

The captain sighed.

“Because most humans are vain, emotional creatures.”

Well, that was a stupid reason. Then again, she felt that way about many things. Shaking the thought from her mind, she once again turned on the infrared heat vision in her visor, hoping that the asari had indeed survived to this point. If whatever was dampening her biotics hadn’t scrambled the few electronics she had, then the interface would be able to detect the warmth of a body, human or not. Garrus busied himself tracking hidden compartments and unlocking doors with his omnitool, while she and Anderson took care of the heavier lifting. The search would take nearly an hour before the interface could pick up a cool red glow from one of  the sealed back rooms. Most likely where they kept the trash. As soon as Shepard saw it, she felt her pulse pick up with anxiety.

“Dr. T'Soni,” she stated again, reciting the lines they’d drilled into her mind after years of training. “We’re Alliance Navy. Councilor Tevos sent us to get you. Do you require any immediate medical assistance?”

When she heard no answer, she shot her turian squadmate a glance. His brow plates were crinkled, mandibles quivering, and she figured he was trying to get a full scope of the situation with his heightened senses. He shook his head.

“She’s having trouble breathing. And she’s bleeding. A lot. Wound smells infected.”

“Dr. T'Soni? We’re coming in now. Try to stay calm.” Though she needed to be calm, herself. The thought of being crammed in such a small, dark room, bleeding to death, starving… It all sent shivers though her spine.

Sparks flew like fireworks as the blade of an omnitool seared through sheets of steel. Once the door split open, Anderson helped the other push it apart. And then Shepard saw one of the most rattling things she’d ever seen on a battlefield. Sure, she’d seen soldiers and civilians with body parts blown to smithereens, both young and old. But the sight of the asari was something that would always stay with her: Weak and crumpled on the floor, wall serving as support for her frame, once blue skin grayed in pallor, blood like blackcurrant wine crusted to her nose, lips, and abdomen, reeking of her own waste. She guessed she’d been here more than three weeks and, by the ration wrappers littered on the floor, she’d run out long ago. Nevertheless, what struck her was the defiance glimmering behind those large royal blue eyes.

She was looking at a survivor. She was looking back to thirteen years ago. She was looking at herself.

 

* * *

 

_April 13 th, 2183— 11:59 pm_

Neon violet lights and the passing red glow of skycars illuminated the outline of Councilor Erythea Tevos’ profile as she stared out through the floor-length window, watching the silent traffic float by. Her heart was pounding, threatening to rip out of her chest; thrumming at the base of her throat painfully. She took a deep breath, smelled nicotine and smoke.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered.

The other figure stepped out of the shadows. Another asari, from what could see from the corner of her eye.

“Nothing personal. Just business.”

“I know… I just…” She knew that voice, and she turned to face it. “I couldn’t afford to wait any longer.”

“And you understand that there can be no loose ends.”

Tevos nodded quietly, wiping up the falling tears from her cheeks. She wasn’t ready. Not before seeing her daughters again. Her lips trembled but uttered no protests. What would happen if the Alliance recovered her daughters, only to see her be disgraced across every new channel? How the media would love to demonize her, to tear apart the reputation and status she had worked so hard to achieve!

“No,” Tevos said, voice quivering. She reached out toward the other’s wrist, twisting it in attempts of disarming her. “I’m not going down like this!”

All it took was an elbow to the temple to knock her down.

“No. But you are going down,” she said, aiming the gun down at her.

And then she pulled the trigger.

 

* * *

 

_April 16 th, 2183— 12:30 pm_

 

Aboard the Normandy, half past noon usually marked lunchtime in the mess hall. But, instead of making a beeline for the galley, Anderson had decided to check in on their newest passenger. But when he headed for the Med Bay, he saw he hadn’t been the only one to think of doing so. Right by the entrance, Shepard was pacing about anxiously, rubbing her ever-reddening arm in firm, even strokes, nose twitching.

Not a few seconds after, Dr. Chakwas exited the Med Bay, a deep furrow set between her eyes.

“Lieutenant Commander, I am going to have to ask you to stop pacing in front of my office. It won’t make Dr. T'Soni wake up any sooner and, frankly, it’s driving me mad.”

“Is she awake?” she asked, halting to attention.

“Well, yes, but _—”_

“I want to talk to her.”

“Hold on, Shepard,” he said, stepping. “ Doctor, I’d like to talk to her first, if I may?”

Dr. Chakwas sighed in defeat and made a limp gesture with her hand toward the door. It was good to be captain.

“If you must, Captain. But I can only allow five minutes. She’s suffered quite the ordeal and needs rest.”

The asari maiden was tucked away under a layer of sheets, wearing a provisional medical gown. Dark, bruised lumps surrounded one of her eyes, deep purple spots marring her sky blue skin. Her lips were broken, also mottled. To Anderson it seemed like a miracle she could even move at the moment.

“How are you feeling, Dr. T'Soni?”

Dry blue lips parted to speak, briefly hesitating.

“All of my colleagues are dead.”

He let his gaze drop, solemn.

“Yes. We are very sorry for your loss,” he said. Sure. He could empathize. He’d been in the Alliance Navy for decades now and had experienced every loss common to man: The loss of family, the loss of friends, the loss of brothers in arms, the loss of a good night’s rest because of the faces of those he’d lost, those he’d let down, faces which haunted him every single night.

He heard Dr. Chakwas call after his overeager protégé, who was storming her way into the Med Bay. The unsettling chill of anxiety began to brew in his gut. This was, in his opinion, a delicate situation and to send Shepard in to do an emotionally delicate job was like choosing a jackhammer over a sculptor’s chisel. But before he could stop her, she had already dragged a desk chair to the cot.

“That was smart, locking yourself in the garbage disposal compartment. Disguising your scent,” she said, an earnest look widening her amber eyes. “It’s probably why you lived.”

The asari didn’t seem as thrilled. Pain and what he assumed to be guilt colored every expression of hers, every breath. Survivor’s guilt.

“Yes. And I let my colleagues die,” she said. “I heard them scream for mercy and I hid. Like a coward.”

“Yes, but they would have died in the attack, regardless. You lack combat skills. And your biotics weren’t working, right?”

For the next few moments, he saw anger, hurt, and sadness flash across her face on a reel like a stereoscope.

“What she means is, you can't—”

“How— How did you know?” the asari doctor asked.

“Because mine weren’t, either. Do you know anything about that?”

Liara winced as she sat up, pain evident in the deep creases between her brows. Her small hands reached toward her abdomen and he figured that, despite all the medigel, the gunshot wound was still sore. He knew better than anyone how that pain lingered, even years later.

“You spoke to the Councilor… So you know about the inactive element zero.” When the both of them had nodded, she continued. “The men who attacked us…”

“Cerberus,” she said, and Liara nodded.

“They were interested in the factor that counteracts biotics. It’s known as omega-enkaphalin.  The amount of hydrogen sulfate and methane, along with the constant electric storms encourages the formation of methanethiol. And—“

“— No offense, Dr. T'Soni. But I need you to speak plainly,” he interjected.

“What I mean is, there’s a mineral on Therum that reduces biotic abilities. And Cerberus is after it.”

If Cerberus indeed was after something to hinder biotics, it couldn’t be good. Advancement for humanity be damned, Cerberus often caused more problems than they were worth: Bombings, kidnappings, unethical experiments on non-humans and humans alike. Anderson rubbed at his throbbing temple, inhaling slowly in hopes of quelling the anger brewing within.

“I should report to Hackett. Shepard, make your visit short.”

 

* * *

 

The blue-skinned woman on the cot was avoiding her eyes, her line of sight sweeping across the floor. Shepard could never tell if this was due to guilt or sadness or something else, but she did know it was due to some kind of overwhelming emotion.

“You’ve been brave,” she said. The lack of response afterward made her think it was likely the wrong thing to say. “But, I need you to be brave one more time. I need you to listen to something.” She slipped the datapad out of her pocket to play the recording. When Saren began to speak, her nose wrinkle in what she assumed was confusion or annoyance. Maybe both. But when Benezia spoke, Shepard swore she saw Liara’s large eyes widen for a microsecond.

“What— Why are you…? I don’t understand.”

“The woman. That’s Matriarch Benezia. Your mother.”

“I know that!” she snapped. “I— I know that… I just don’t understand. Why do you have that? Who is that turian on the recording?”

When she explained the situation, she didn’t seem to calm down.

“I need you to tell me what you know, doctor. We believe she’s working for the Councilor, too.”

“She’s working for the Asari Republics. But, Commander, I haven’t seen my mother in ten years,” she insisted. “When she took that job at Central Intelligence, we just… drifted apart.”

Well, this wasn’t what she needed to hear. Instead, there were thoughts pestering her, flying over her head like mosquitoes, biting and urging her to persist in the questioning. But while she was lost in her thoughts she heard a clattering sound and the mere sound sent her shriveling into a ball, every muscle in her body tight, contracted.

“My datapad,” Liara whispered. “I’m sorry… But, I just remembered my mother sent me an odd message two weeks ago… But it’s so damaged, I do not know if you would get anything valuable out of it.”

“No, I couldn’t,” she replied, breathing into her loosening muscles, which she forcefully willed to relax. “But I know someone who can.”


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look back at Shepard and Nihlus' doomed partnership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some in-game dialogue has been included.

_November 11 th, 2182_—  _Arcturus Station_

 

Armistice Day blanketed Arcturus Station in a murky, unreadable mood. Veterans of the First Contact War—or the Relay 314 Incident, as the turians called it—sat in neat lines at the front of the auditorium. From behind the curtains they resembled a sea of stones, battle-hardened, shells of the children they used to be, deprived of the comfortable yet ignorant belief that humans ruled the galaxy, that humanity was the sole owner of the universe— a belief violently robbed from them.

Each year, humans and turians held a tense, but usually civil ceremony in honor of the end of the war, alternating between the military base at Palaven’s capital, Cipritine, and the Alliance Navy’s base at Arcturus. Anderson had once told her that no one ever enjoyed these stuffy occasions but that they were necessary in order to maintain good public relations with the turians and the rest of the Council species. Shepard still didn’t get why it involved two hours of speeches and stale finger foods.

When the turian veterans arrived at the auditorium, an ensemble of string instruments began playing a regal, military riff, wrought with triplet rhythms, immediately accompanied by the throbbing of timpani, and the blasting of horns: measured, neat, impeccable, matching the turian’s style of marching to their seats, fists over where she assumed their hearts were. And then, it ended, abruptly. She knew where this would eventually lead, and so she stepped out of the auditorium with the utmost discretion. The First Contact War may have been over, but the war of whose orchestra played the other’s anthem the best was still alive and fighting. And right on cue, the turians’ orchestra, along with the human chorus, began blasting the Human Systems Alliance’s anthem, complete with shrill operatic crescendos. They couldn’t take a cue from Japan’s lower key, dignified, shorter anthem? No, no. This was far too much for Shepard. Crowds, too much noise, too much pomp and circumstance.

The young lieutenant sighed, leaning against the wall, eyes tightly shut.  _I can do this. I don’t even have to talk this time._ Her heart pounded against her tonsils so hard, she could barely breathe. A fluke on Elysium and suddenly she was the Alliance’s golden child and, as such, a candidate for the Alliance-Hierarchy Task Force Project. A human and a turian, working together, learning each race’s techniques and cultures— a foreign exchange program with guns. She would be stuck with some cocky turian supremacist and she would inevitably screw up, misinterpret their facial expression (they had facial expressions but what the hell did they mean with all those damn plates?), or inadvertently disrespect their ancestors’ spirits and start another war and…

“This is all for show, you know,” she heard a slightly nasal, tenor flanging voice say. She’d been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed a turian had sidled up next to her. “People are going to hate whomever they hate, no matter how many glorified tea parties we have together.”

As did most people, especially turians, this particular turian towered over her, easily two feet taller than she was. White, zebra-like markings lined his deep cinnabar facial plates, combined with a pair of striking emerald green eyes. His arms were crossed impassively over his massive barrel chest, seemingly more nonchalant than her antsy, twitchy self.

“Aren’t you supposed to sit with the rest of the veterans?” she asked.

“No. I’m here to comply with compulsory attendance. And I’d say I’ve done my duty already, don’t you?”

Shepard didn’t think that needed an answer, as she herself was ducking out on the initial ceremony on the basis of sensory overload. An exhausted sigh spilled from her full lips. Were this a battlefield, she would be fine, hyperfocused, even. But this… this was way too much for her.

“Major Nihlus Kryik, Turian Armed Forces.”

The turian held out a gloved hand and she couldn’t help but stare at the difference in number of fingers: turians only had two fingers and a thumb. How did they write? What instruments did they use?  _Oh._ He wanted to shake hands, didn’t he? This was always an awkward situation, especially among humans. Why humans insisted on physical contact between complete strangers, boggled her mind. Most humans wore shorter sleeves so that weapons were impossible to conceal— the whole origin of the gesture to begin with, as far as she knew. Why spread germs? Why touch? And handshakes were a human thing. Was he trying to make her feel at ease, or something? How did turians greet each other, anyway? Beads of sweat were beginning to pearl at her temples and for once, she was glad for her thick mane, as it concealed the perspiration behind her pinned back locks, a regulation-style low bun.

And so panic set in and Shepard ended up doing something between a quick, respectful bow and a curtsy… and immediately hated herself for it.

“Lieutenant Jennifer Shepard, Alliance Navy.”

Instead of the annoyed scoff she’d been expecting, Nihlus snorted with something resembling amusement.

“Charmed,” he purred. “Well, Lieutenant… I will see you around. I’m sure.”

Her mouth had the bad habit of going dry around strangers. She found no words, so she just nodded, feeling the sub-zero chill of anxiety tugging at her gut and her knees as she watched him go back into the main auditorium. The orchestral music climaxed and ended in a triumphant tonic major, powerful, showy, something Shepard assumed was part of the whole pissing contest they had going on. The rumble of Admiral Hackett’s gravelly voice echoed through the halls, somberly explaining the meaning of Armistice Day with the solemnity of a religious holiday. Her stomach sank. In just a few minutes, Hackett or Primarch Fedorian would be calling her name and she would have to stand in front of a multitude of strangers staring back at her. Or maybe a horde of krogan would come charging in and stomp her to death before that could happen.

“ _… Task Force Project, we would like to invite Lieutenant Jennifer Shepard.”_

_Please kill me. Someone please just kill me now._

Shepard trudged on through the doorway and spotted Hackett at the podium through the tunnel of navy blue curtains.

_Thresher maw acid sounds really good about now._

She stopped at his side and gave a formal, 45-degree angle salute before turning to the crowd, standing at attention, careful to keep her thumb against her forefinger’s second knuckle. Her eyes surfed over a sea of unfamiliar faces, each of them unreadable. What if they asked her to make an improvised speech? She crossed gazes with Anderson. When he gave her a crooked smile and an approving nod, though, the overwhelming chill eased up from her limbs.

It was the Primarch’s turn to speak.

“In a gesture of cooperation and goodwill, Major Nihlus Kryik, a Spectre in the Turian Army, has volunteered to participate in the Task Force.”

Her face fell as she saw the green-eyed turian from before. His mandibles twitched in a smirk as he approached her. Instead of offering his hand, however, he gave a curt bow at the waist, which she reciprocated.

And that was how Shepard and Nihlus became partners.

 

* * *

 

 _April 3rd, 2183_ —  _Constant, Eden Prime_

 

The shuttle landed on Eden Prime around noon, at the time civilian shuttles usually landed so that their recon mission seemed more like a tourist outing than two agents undercover. Still, a turian in an almost exclusively human colony was a bit obvious. At first, Shepard had protested wearing globs of makeup— as she never wore any —and she especially objected to pretending to be Nihlus’ wife, mate, whatever turians called it. The whole idea of romance, real or imagined, made her uneasy and want to stim her skin raw. Nihlus, on the other hand, had assured her that human-turian relationships were on the rise since the end of the Relay 314 Incident and that such a thing would likely be good for P.R.

_Politics. I hate politics._

Popular opinion generally dictated that Constant, Eden Prime’s capital, was one of the most beautiful cities in Alliance Space. Tall buildings ripped at the sky like razor blades, a neo-industrial aesthetic so unlike the more primitive-looking prefabs dotting the outskirts of the city where the farmers lived. Monorail roads cut across its landscape, carrying masses of busy commuters to and fro. A perfect contradiction: a hectic sense of industrialization, splattered in the midst of a natural paradise world. Or, at least, it seemed like perfection until one reached the core of it all. Beneath the shadows of the great steel towers, addicts hid and waited— for their next hit, a victim, or the sweet release of death. In any case, shells of whom they once were. Constant was undoubtedly a hotspot for red sand trafficking.

“It seems pointless to ask, but can you act? Pretend?” Nihlus asked. Shepard had been reflecting on the wild look carved into the vagrants’ eyes.

“Depends.” Everything she knew about social interaction she’d learned from watching other people or from vids and, when there was nothing in her mental database about a particular situation, she winged it (and often failed)— so then, wasn’t her entire personality an act? “What do you need me to do?”

“We need to score some red sand.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a second before it registered in her brain that he meant that, in order to find the source, they’d need to make a purchase. And who better to do that than an addict? She thumbed at her nose. Once. Twice. Thrice. A wide-eyed, bloodshot look. Twitching. An unsettled aura. What looked like stimming. Seemed easy enough.

“Shepard.”

When she looked up at the turian, she felt two bare hands on her face, clawed thumbs stroking the skin on her cheeks. And suddenly he was right in her face. Panic flooded her veins and made her legs feel heavy— but not her fists. One swing and Nihlus was on his ass, on the pavement.

“ _DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!”_

A million eyes were on her, but the city’s rhythm barely skipped a beat, its citizens quickly returning to their own concerns. There were whispers, murmurs about “sandheads”, “sand-blasting”, and being all “dusted up”. The adrenaline was making her hands shake. But by the rumbling chuckle and smirk from Nihlus, this had all been part of the plan because now all of them knew— or, rather, thought — she was a sandhead.  She watched him swipe a broad wrist across his mouth, dragging blue droplets with it.

“See? Nothing to it,” he laughed as he stood up, dusting himself off.

“It isn’t funny. Look at me!” she hissed, holding her trembling hands up.

“That’s the whole point. Now let’s see if we can’t find someone to help us with your, ah, little problem,  _dear.”_ He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her outer arm firmly in place as they headed farther into the bowels of the inner city. Shepard couldn’t decide whether this made her feel more anxious, or if the pressure was comforting— but it was sure making her head spin. There was one thing she was sure of: Spectres, especially Nihlus, were dangerous and reckless, and she’d be remiss to trust him too quickly. They made their way down an alley, damp with old urine, spilled beer, and the condensation drizzling from the sky-high HVAC units. The smell of ammonia, rust, and moldy decay made her dizzy and her stomach twist. How many of these people had been functional adults prior to red sand? How many of these people had been police officers, soldiers, marines? How many of these people had escaped batarian slavers who’d introduced them to the drug? How many of these people had committed atrocities to feed their addiction?

She’d just begun to catch her breath and swallow her heart back into place before Nihlus spoke again, this time to a homeless man crumpled on the ground, clutching his blanket against his form. He seemed to be the only one around in his right mind, likely starting to come down from his high.

“Let me get a dimebag.”

The man snarled at him, ochre-stained teeth peeking behind his dry lips.

“The fuck I look like?”

“Someone who knows where to get red sand,” he replied, patting Shepard’s arm with the same even pressure. “And my darling wife here gets a little… testy… when she hasn’t had her fix.”

Bastard had managed to get her shaking like a junkie. It was as if he knew, as if he’d read her weaknesses in the few months they’d spent together, despite the fact that this was their first mission together. That in itself made Nihlus a terrifying yet intriguing man, in Shepard’s opinion. Perhaps there was something worth learning from him, after all.

The human man rolled his eyes and sniffed, nose twitching. She wondered whether he was savoring any last grains of red sand lingering in his nasal passages. Finally, he nodded in the direction of a set of stairs descending into a basement and muttered something about a Cole. She saw Nihlus turn on his omnitool’s interface and do what she assumed was a credit transfer, and… Had he just winked at the guy?

“You do an excellent impression of a junkie, Shepard,” he said as he steered her toward the basement.

“I don’t like working with you.”

“That almost hurts my feelings,” he laughed.

She’d end up dead before this mission was over. She was sure of it.

The basement led to a hotel kitchen, even more frenetic than the city itself. Line cooks and servers ran back and forth to the beck and call of a boisterous chef. Pots, pans and trays clanged over the sound of boiling liquids and the roar of flames.

“You’re a bit too zen for a junkie right now. Want me to kiss you?”

Shepard’s mouth flapped open with both indignation and surprise, anxiety beginning to resurface. The implied harassment, the noise, the smells, the lights.

“Can turians even kiss?”

“Is that a yes?”

“This is sexual harassment.”

No, no. He was playing her weaknesses again, riling her up. And damn it, it was working. There was too much going on here. She thumbed at her nose three times and rubbed her forearm until it was red and painful. A damn panic attack was what she’d have if they didn’t leave this place soon. But that was probably what he wanted.

“Call him. Call Cole.”

Cole? Oh. Right. The guy.

“C— Co… Where’s Cole?” she called into the droning kitchen. “I said, Where’s Cole?”

A greasy-looking blond young man with stubble looked up from his station, a toothpick pinched between his darkened teeth. Dishwasher. After drying his hands with a towel, he trod toward them, hands in his pockets.

“I wasn’t expectin’ no turians ‘round 'ere,” he said in a Londoner accent.

“Shut up and give us the sand already, asshole,” Nihlus said.

“It’s a hundred twenty-five creds, first of all.”

“We’re not giving you anything until we see it.”

“Not how it works 'ere, mate. Ya give me the creds, I give you the coordinates. Thassit.”

Glassy mint green eyes felt her up and down and it made her want to vomit and rub the skin off her arm and hit the top of her head with the side of her fist and if she did they’d all stare and oh, God, it was happening: a panic attack. Anxiety had become a giant, invisible demon squeezing the life out of her lungs and it would not let her go. Her body acted on its own, doubling over, hands grabbing fistfuls of her tightly combed hair from her temples, throat releasing a slur of unintelligible phrases in English, Spanish, and Interlingua… She wasn’t sure anymore.

Cole yelled something. Nihlus gave him a shove before grabbing him by the collar. He yelled again. And now the turian was dragging her out of the kitchen, past the alley, away from the onlookers— oh, God they wouldn’t stop staring. If they’d only stopped staring. — and into their rented skycar. As time passed and they drove on, the vice grip on her chest began to ease up, though her arms and shoulders were still locked in their protective positions near her head.

He said something about underestimating how emotional she would get. Asshole. Her lungs and throat were burning and she felt as if she’d just expended every single muscle in her body and now he had jokes. Oh, she’d get him later… Just as soon as she could process things and talk again.

An hour later, they arrived at a port. She assumed this was the spot Cole had talked about.

“You get out.”

“ _What?_ I’m not ready!”

“Shepard, I’m having a hard time figuring out just why and how in the hell you became a marine. Even more so a lieutenant! If you were a turian, I’d have court-martialed you for insubordination and incompetence.”

“But I’m a  _human._ ” What kind of a stupid response was that? “And— And you’re on a human colony. You  _need_  me for this.”

“It would seem I know more about how humans think than you do.”

“What the— Why would you…?” Her cheeks were heating up, hands dropping to her lap in tight fists. And then the son of a bitch started laughing. He actually had the audacity to laugh at her.

“Look, Shepard. You’ve got potential. But you’re an open book. It’s too easy.” He shook his head, tossing a look at her over his carapace. “You smell like anger and vengeance, but it’s muddled up with all these other fears… You have to compartmentalize. Keep it intact. Use your rage. Let it fuel your combat. Don’t let it blind you. Let it feed your strength.”

She soon caught on she’d been gawking at him for quite some time. A pep talk was the last thing she’d been expecting.

“Now, get out of the car and talk to that human by the dock. Powell.” He tapped his headset. “I’ll be listening in.”

Just as he’d mentioned, there was a gangly man with a goatee by a stack of shipping crates. He wore an old drab beanie and dirty overalls. He likely was a dock worker who made a fortune on the side smuggling drugs and who-knows-what-else.

“You’re not gonna rile me up again?”

“No. You look crazy enough with your fringe poking out of your head like that. Go for it.”

Right. She’d been pulling at her hair before and now it stuck out in gelled-up lines parallel to her shoulders. No use in smoothing it back down now. Shepard took a breath and stepped out of the car, shutting it behind her. The human was staring at her, but the sound of ocean waves settled a calm over her, enough to allow her to think of options in case this went badly.

“Powell?”

“Who wants to know?”

Her tongue was dry again. Instead of speaking, she held out an unsteady hand, palm up.

“Shit, lady…” He grimaced. “I don’t usually say this on account it’s bad for business, but maybe you should lay off the sand, yeah?”

“Please.”

Powell sighed, shaking his head.

“Fine, fine. Just wait here.”

The worker then retreated into the warehouse, leaving Shepard standing vulnerable in a crowd of containers, several locks of frayed hair swaying in the salt breeze.

“ _I’m gonna have a look around,”_  Nihlus said into the com.

“I need you at my six,” she muttered in an attempt to not look as if she wer talking to herself, should anyone else be looking.

“ _You’re a big girl, Lieutenant. You can handle yourself. You knocked a turian down right on his ass, if I’m remembering right.”_

He wasn’t listening. He wouldn’t listen. An inkling of imminent danger prickled at her gut.

“You’re being reckless. I can’t have your back if I don’t know where you are.”

“ _I’ve taken down an entire platoon on my own, Shepard. Just wait for your sand. I’ll be in the warehouse.”_

The breeze caused a loose tendril of hair to slither across her line of sight when she turned toward the skycar. He was no longer in it, so she figured he had his cloaking device on and was en route to the warehouse. That hothead was going to get one of them killed.

Cold steel pressed against her temple.

“Who were you talking to…  _Lieutenant Shepard?”_  she heard Powell ask. His ar wrapped around her neck.

Shepard gasped, every muscle tensing at the unpleasant surprise. He knew her name. How did he know her name? There must have been someone on the inside. And if there was someone who knew who she was, then…

_Nihlus…_

Flicking her thumb against her knuckle, she called up her biotics and drove her elbow into Powell’s stomach. In the microsecond his grip loosened, she twisted her torso, pulled and twisted his other arm down until he let go of the gun. He stumbled backward. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. His lips parted. He was going to yell. If anyone heard the struggle, she and Nihlus would definitely die. She lifted and dropped her leg in an ax kick, and Powell dropped to the ground. She knelt down to feel his pulse. Was he dead?

“ _Saren?”_ she heard Nihlus say, shock lifting his voice an octave.

_Who the hell is Saren?_

“ _Nihlus,”_ responded a fainter, deeper turian voice.

Shepard made a dash for the warehouse, the foreboding dread within her overwhelming her senses. However this would end, it would not be good.

“ _This isn’t your mission, Saren. What are you doing here?”_

The way Nihlus’ subvocals softened made her think he knew Saren, perhaps even trusted him.

“ _The Council thought you could use some help on this one.”_

The Council? Since when did the Council involve itself in human affairs? She vaulted over a crate. She couldn’t be running fast enough.

“ _I didn’t expect the drug situation to be this bad.”_

Saren wasn’t working with the Council.

“ _Don’t worry… I’ve got it under control.”_

The loud crack of a pistol echoed throughout the port, and not even the roaring waves could drown it out. Shepard stopped at the sound, horror flooding her veins.  _Oh, my God. Nihlus._ Her joints went soft, and if it weren’t for the railing she held onto, she would have fallen. The door wasn’t too far. Maybe it was just a flesh wound and he was struggling with the bastard right now.  _Yeah, that’s right,_ she thought as she started for the warehouse again. Maybe he had him pinned down, Saren’s own pistol to his head.

And then she reached the dark interior. Stray rays of sunlight filtered in through narrow rectangular windows, cutting shapes into the darkness. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the lack of illumination. There, by an open crate, she found the body of a turian clad in red and black. A shaky sigh poured from her lips.

“Nihlus,” she whispered, kneeling down next to him. A pool of navy blue expanded beneath him. This was bad. There was no way he’d survive this amount of exsanguination. Though his face was turned in the other direction, she could see his mandible quivering as if he were trying to speak. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to turn his head, to let him see her, to let him not think he was dying alone. No, not like Melissa.

“You’re in the wrong place, Shepard,” she heard another flanging voice say.

The reflection in the pool of blood showed a silver-skinned turian with an exaggeratedly long fringe. But just as she began to turn, she came to find he was quicker than she, feeling steel hit the back of her head.

She never did get to look at him face to face. But that was the last thing she remembered.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new asari Councilor causes problems for Shepard and Garrus. Shepard is conflicted with her change in rank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some in-game dialogue has been included.

_April 16 th, 2183_

 

The news of Councilor Tevos’ death— ruled out to be a suicide— had reached every corner of the Citadel, its large holographic billboards with chattering news anchors next to pictures of the illustrious asari politician, scrolling breaking news in all the major Citadel languages. Unlike the Council’s modus operandi in regard to human affairs, the political cleanup was neat and swift, and within a day and a half, Irissa T'bela assumed Tevos’ role as Councilor with a unanimous vote from her peers. As bad of a bad impression Tevos had made on Shepard, the second she met Councilor Irissa she began missing the former. She had a tongue like a razor and eyes like the vastness of the open ocean: cold, threatening, capable of making a giant feel small and insignificant. The faint traces of warmth that Tevos’ personal effects provided for the chambers had disappeared, leaving Anderson, Shepard, and Garrus in a room that felt 30 degrees colder with Irissa’s frigid presence.

The asari barely looked up from the datapad in her hands as they sat, her squared jaw set askew in what looked like displeasure. She tossed the device on her desk and it clattered in front of them.

“I don’t know what dealings you had with Tevos, but now that I am councilor for the republics I plan to do things differently.”

The datapad displayed Shepard’s identification picture and information and read “RECOMMENDATION” in a bold font.

“What’s this?” Anderson asked, picking up the tablet.

“Before her death, Tevos submitted a request for your… protégé. She nominated her a Spectre candidate.” Her voice practically dripped with disdain. “However, the situation being that she killed herself, solidifies my opinion that she was not in her right mind.”

Taking the datapad from her mentor, she noticed Councilor Sparatus and Councilor Valern had already signed off on it, much to her surprise. Tevos must have had more clout than what she’d given her credit for, which made her “suicide” all the more suspect. Had someone found out about the mines and threatened her with it? Who else would benefit from her demise? The Shadow Broker was one.  _The other,_  Shepard thought,  _is right in front of me._

“C-Sec said there was no suicide note,” she said. “Ruling a murder a suicide makes things clean and simple. You seem all too eager to glean from Councilor Tevos’ death.”

“Trust me, Shepard. The feeling of distrust is mutual.” She flung a pointed glare in her direction. “Erythea was indecisive, but she was careful and that’s why she lasted this long. But the minute she gets involved with you, she suddenly decides to kill herself?”

Her chair screeched as she shot up from her chair. She tossed the datapad right back on the desk.

“I did  _not_ kill the Councilor!”

“Have a seat, Shepard. I never accused you of it,” the asari said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “But you were the last visitor she saw in her chambers before her death.”

“There are cameras all over the Citadel.” This wasn’t much of an argument. “There had to have been some other factor. Did she have any other visitors? At her apartment, maybe?”

“There was a convenient citywide glitch in the cameras.” She rested her glossed lips over her closed fist, resembling a Rodin sculpture. “What, exactly, did you discuss with her?”

“That’s classified.”

“Well, actually, I’m the asari Councilor. That means I’m entitled to information my predecessor was privy to, according to 36 Citadel Code, Section 3231.” The asari picked the tablet back up and began scrolling through it again. “And it seems your last stop was on Therum. So get talking.”

Shepard frowned. Irissa had all but thrown the book at her and, in her mind, that spelled out defeat. She could feel Garrus fidgeting next to her, his massive fist squeezed so tightly she wondered how he didn’t claw his palms apart.

“Well, Lieutenant Commander? I’m waiting.”

Had Shepard bitten the inside of her cheek any harder, she would have had a mouthful of blood.

“We stopped on Therum to speak to Matriarch Benezia’s daughter.”

The sour look on her face melted at the name, her brows furrowing in visible concern. Her lips parted, but for the first few seconds she said nothing, so Shepard assumed she was picking her words carefully.

“What do you know about Matriarch Benezia?”

_Oh, so_ now _I have your attention._

“She’s working with Saren. And we believe she may have been compromised. She hasn’t checked in with your government in, what? Weeks?” The frowning corners of Irissa’s mouth twitched. It was Shepard who held the power now. “Dr. T'Soni told us she’s on Noveria, in Port Hanshan.”

“No one can just get in Noveria. If you’re not an employee of one of the major companies, you’d need special clearance.  _Spectre_  clearance.”

Garrus folded his arms over his chest. 

“ _Now_  she’s getting it,” he grumbled.

Deep blue lips peeled back from pearly white teeth in a snarl.

“You cannot possibly think I’ll allow a  _human_ to become a Spectre just because an asari agent is in trouble. She knew the risks when she accepted the mission.”

“And I don’t think the Republics have any more intel on Benezia,” Anderson said. “If it becomes known an asari official was involved in the incident on Eden Prime, you will have a political shit-storm on your hands.”

Was he blackmailing her? Shepard frowned, shooting Anderson a worried look. He didn’t bother looking back at her. This felt wrong. The urge to speak goaded at her stomach with sharp spokes, but she knew better than to interrupt her superior.

“You manipulative coward. You know Benezia’s role in this. You have nothing.”

“You and I know. Shepard and Vakarian know. But,  the Alliance? Udina? They don’t know that just yet. And, trust me, if you wanna see manipulative, Councilor, you haven’t met Ambassador Udina. He will milk this for all he can.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know me, Councilor. I’m a “by-all-means-necessary” kind of man.”

This time, the asari only shot back a glare.

_Checkmate,_  thought Shepard.

 

* * *

 

 

In Anderson’s opinion, the ceremony reminded him of the courthouse wedding he and Cynthia’d had so long ago: quick, no frills, to the point— save for the verbose speeches about responsibility. Shepard stood before the Council, clad in her dress blues, standing at ease with her arms folded behind her back, feet at the width of her hips. The young, lanky girl he’d saved so many years ago… She’d turned into this powerful fighter, this honorable adult, this dutiful soldier. He could almost feel her resisting the urge to look back at him, the urge to seek his approval of the situation. But she was a damned good marine and listened to the Councilors’ blathering. Damned if his eyes didn’t feel the burning threat of tears, tears of pride.

“Spectres are not trained, but chosen,” Councilor Valern said. “Individuals forged in the fire of service and battle, those whose actions elevate them above the rank and file.”

Councilor Irissa continued, her squared jaw tight with contempt.

“Spectres are an ideal, a symbol. The embodiment of courage, determination, and self-reliance. They are the right hand of the Council, instruments of our will.”

“Spectres bear a great burden. They are protectors of galactic peace, both our first and last line of defense,” Sparatus continued, pausing for what Anderson assumed was the effect of weight. “The safety of the galaxy is theirs to uphold.”

The asari spoke again. 

“You are the first human Spectre. This is a great accomplishment for you and your entire species,” she said with a certain venom in her tone.

Fortunately, Shepard was either oblivious to it, or was simply unfazed, as she properly saluted the Council.

“It’s an honor,” she said.

“We are sending you into the Traverse after Saren. He is a fugitive from justice, so you are authorized to use any means necessary to apprehend or eliminate him.”

He heard Irissa sigh with disdain.

“This meeting of the Council is adjourned.”

Neither one said anything during their trip down the elevator and back to Udina’s office— save, of course for Udina himself.  _Blah, blah, blah, win for humanity. Blah, blah, seat as first human Councilor. Blah, blah, blah plans, blah, blah, power, blah, influence._ The clipped, rectal-clenching affect to his speech merely fueled his desire to rip his throat out sometimes. Judging by the distant look in her eyes, his protégé seemed to have tuned him out long ago.

Back at the human embassy, Udina apparently felt the need to pat Shepard on the shoulder, a gesture from which she retreated swiftly. The Ambassador sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Very well…  _Spectre._ There is one more thing on the agenda for today,” his nasal, staccato voice announced. A few taps on his computer brought up a hologram of a tall, bearded, white man with a prominent scar on his face, dressed in his formal blues, a man they knew as Admiral Hackett.

“ _Shepard. I heard congratulations are in order.”_

As Anderson remembered what was to come, he felt his stomach knot and twist within him. Shepard wouldn’t like this at all; in fact, he knew all too well she would resist it.

“Sir, it is an honor, Admiral Hackett, sir!” she barked, saluting him.

When the admiral requested she be at ease, she obeyed, though Captain Anderson could only guess at what was going through her mind right now. Her fists were clenched tightly behind her back. Oh, this was going to be bad. Not that she would have a meltdown before Hackett, but he knew she’d come after him and demand facts, demand to know why this was happening to her and not to him.

“ _Because you are the first human to have achieved Spectre status, the Alliance believes you are ready to command your own vessel. So, on behalf of the Systems Alliance Navy, I am promoting you from Lieutenant Commander to Commander over the SSV Normandy SR-1.”_

He witnessed her toughened expression falter, shatter, and fall to reveal a look of utter and genuine shock. He knew that look. Hell, he’d experienced it several times before, prior to becoming Captain. That feeling when all words evaporated from the tongue and joints turned to gelatin, when one was stuck in a limbo of emotions, between elation and outrage.

Udina retrieved a black box from his desk, handing it to Anderson, who already knew what it was. When he opened it and saw that silver oak leaf and the two shoulder boards with two broad golden stripes and a thinner one in between, a surge of pride ran through his veins like and warmed his jaded spirit.

“Congratulations, Shepard,” he began, approaching with her new insignia— mostly to alert her there would be some limited physical contact. All was silent after that, except for the occasional whisper of fabric against fabric, shoulder boards slipping from the velvet box and onto Shepard’s shoulders, the bright gold a contrast to her dour dress blues. She was staring at him; he could feel her gaze burning on his skin. But he couldn’t look at her just yet, not with Udina and Hackett present. This had to be a conversation, a moment they needed to have in private. Not now. He lifted his hand in a salute, which she stiffly reciprocated.

“ _Make the Alliance proud, Commander. Hackett out.”_

“Which brings me to my next point, Shepard,” Udina said when the hologram fizzled away. “Your actions still reflect on humanity as whole. You make a mess and I get stuck cleaning it up.”

“I don’t answer to you,” she stated plainly. “I’ll do my job and you’ll do yours.”

Udina’s nose wrinkled in a pointed glare, first at the new Spectre, then at him, to which Anderson only shrugged.

“She’s got you there, Udina.”

“Not exactly the answer I was looking for, Shepard. Remember, you were a human long before you were a Spectre.” He pointed a glare at Anderson. “I don’t need another of  _you_  running amok. At least she actually made it to Spectre.”

_I’ll get you eventually, you son of a bitch,_ he thought.

Once the paperwork had gone through,  he led Shepard out of the office, offering to buy her a round of drinks because, hell, she deserved it. And after the extended contact with that whinging ferret of an ambassador, Anderson needed it, too. But before he could hail the elevator, he heard the stomp of her military boots up and down the hallway.

“It isn’t fair, sir!”

“Shepard, this is a good thing. Trust me.”

His attempts to comfort her apparently needed some work.

“It should have been you, sir! I'm— I’m…  _usurping_  your position!” she said, throwing her hands up in a dramatic overture. “I don’t even know what the Council was thinking! Why didn’t they nominate you?”

“You’re not  _usurping_  anything.” Then again, had he just ignored her question as to why he wasn’t the one nominated, she would have pressed on and on. And he couldn’t just lie to her. Not Shepard. Not when they’d formed this close bond of trust over the past thirteen years. “I had my chance, Shepard. Long ago.”

The woman stopped at the end of the hall, leaving an eerie silence in the lack of echoing footfalls.

“What?”

“I… I’ve known Saren for a while now. He and I were partnered up several years ago, for Armistice Day.” He ran a wide, calloused palm over his shaved head. “I was the first candidate for human Spectre and I…” No, he wouldn’t lie. Couldn’t lie. “It was a mission to take down a rogue scientist, researching illegal AI technology in the Skyllian Verge. This was before I met you. Saren and I… We had different approaches to the situation. He had a hostage with sensitive information and they were hiding in an eezo refinery on Camala, full of civilians. I wanted to infiltrate, get Kahl—” Shit. He hadn’t meant to mention Kahlee. “Get the hostage out and get the hell outta Dodge. Clean, surgical, as few casualties as possible. But Saren…”

It wasn’t until she spoke that he realized she was hanging onto every word he said, wide-eyed, expectant.

“What’d he do?”

“We stormed in. Got Kahlee. He had ordnances everywhere. Blew the refinery to pieces to distract the batarian guards. Kahlee and I barely made it out alive.”

“And the civilians?”

Anderson rubbed at the flat bridge of his nose.

“It was a complete massacre. Insurgents, civilians… There was no way of telling them apart afterward. Black toxic gas clouds in the atmosphere.” He felt himself go numb as he remembered the stench of charred corpses… the batarian children from the village nearby, sick with radiation poisoning, skin peeling off in chunks, crying for relief, crying over the bodies of their dead parents. It had been a batarian version of Chernobyl. The land went barren, toxic rain flooded villages hundreds of miles away, birth defects and all sorts of radiation-related diseases rampant. All because he couldn’t control Saren. “Anyway… Saren threw me under the bus. Said I blew his cover. He… He was against my nomination, to begin with. And, in the end, he got his way.”

“But how the hell was that your fault?”

“Who do you think the Council was gonna listen to? Me? Or their best agent? Listen… I had a bad feeling from the beginning and I should have gone with my gut. I should have been more careful. And that’s exactly the advice I have for you, Shepard. Be careful. Go with your gut.”

She was avoiding his gaze. He approached but she shook her head. He reached out but hesitated; he never knew what to do when she got upset like this. Shepard had become like a daughter to him, so he felt he’d fallen in this awkward position of being stuck in between wanting to soothe her like a father and wanting to beat some sense into her like a proper CO.

“But… It’s not my crew,” she said quietly. “It’s your crew. The Normandy is yours.”

He opted for the playful middle ground, taking into account her tactile issues, and nudged her with his elbow, her smaller frame swaying from the momentaneous pressure.

“She’s yours now, child. You did good. And that’s why she’s yours. The crew, too. You’ve earned it.” She lowered her head with the sullenness of a child who’d been scolded. “Hey, now. Look at me. You can do this, Shepard. And you wanna know how I know?”

The question had, at least for the moment, recaptured her attention.

“You’re a survivor. You’re a fighter. You’re the strongest soldier I’ve ever met.”

“Sir…”

“I mean, you have a couple screws loose in that head of yours, but damned if you can’t kick some ass.”

The rare, lyrical sound of her laughter filled his heart with relief and joy.

“And Elysium… You aren’t known as a hero for nothing. That kind of success takes intelligence, courage, and a leadership. And all that? That’s you… Commander.”

The sight of her physically biting back tears tugged at his heart and forced him to swallow back the lump in his own throat, even more so when she gave him a perfect 45-degree salute— which he returned.

“Go get ‘em, Shepard. You can do this.”

 

* * *

 

 

Setting her things in the captain’s cabin felt wrong, like breaking a rule, or looking at a crooked picture frame, or stepping on the cracks on the sidewalks. Even once she’d hung up all her model ships above her pull-out double bed, it still felt like she was desecrating Captain Anderson’s quarters. She took one last look at the cramped cabin and left, the doors hissing behind her. The crew— new and old — would be awaiting her orders at the CIC.

Why anyone, especially Anderson, thought she was leadership material was way beyond her understanding. The thought rung even louder when she reached the top of the stairs and saw the entire crew staring back at her, standing around the galaxy map.

It was Chief Navigator Charles Pressly, who Anderson had suggested as her XO, who spoke up first.

“Congratulations, Commander Shepard,” he said with a salute. “Company, salute!”

The rest of the crew— among them Engineer Adams, Detective Vakarian and Dr. Chakwas — joined in the salute, introducing themselves one by one.  _Great. As if today hasn’t been overwhelming enough._ Memorizing each crew member’s name, which she would undoubtedly do, would add to her headache. At least she didn’t have to shake hands with them, and for that she was grateful. There were some others she didn’t know: a human woman with brown hair and a cocksure smirk, Ashley Williams, and a human man with black hair and stubble named Kaidan Alenko. She’d heard of him, a fellow biotic, an L2, according to Dr. Chakwas. Part of her felt guilty at having received the newest prototypes, but she felt no need to go into personal details.

At the end of the rounds, she ended up in the cargo hold, inspecting the supplies because, if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself. She took a good look at the gunnery, making sure there were enough thermal clips for the mission, and then took a gander around the Mako. The bumps and scratches it’d received on Therum were virtually undetectable, so much so that she began to wonder whether she’d received a brand new one.

“Like what you see?” a turian crooned.

Shepard jumped back, snarling at Garrus.

“Ah, sorry, Commander,” he laughed.

Her teeth were still grinding together as she tried to rein in her emotions. God, she hated surprises.

“So, uh… Congratulations, I guess.”

She saw the twitch in his wrist, the hesitation to initiate a handshake. Relief washed over her when he didn’t.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Spectre status,” he said, almost to himself. A far away, almost nostalgic look tinted the blue of his eyes. “This is gonna be so much better than working at C-Sec.”

“I take it you’ve worked with a Spectre before?”

He shook his head.

“No, no. But I know what they’re like.” What seemed to be nostalgia before was now something else. Admiration? Envy? Both. The dim cargo hold made turian facial expressions even more cryptic. “Spectres make their own rules. You’re free to handle things your way. Back at C-Sec you’re buried by all these rules and regulations, with the damn bureaucrats riding your back. And that’s why there’s so much crime on Zakera. By the time you’re done going through all the channels, the criminals have already bombed three buildings, murdered dozens of children and stolen everyone’s hard-earned credits.”

Shepard felt sick at the suggestion, a lukewarm puddle of bile sloshing about in her stomach.

“If I’m trying to track down a dangerous criminal, it shouldn’t matter how I do it, as long as I do it. But, no. C-Sec wants it done their way. Protocol and procedure come first.”

“So, what? You just quit because you don’t like the way they do things?”

“There’s more to it than that.” The turian sat himself down on a nearby crate. “It wasn’t as bad at first, but as I rose in ranks I got saddled with more and more red tape. The way C-Sec handled Saren? That was typical. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I just hope you’ve thought it through. I hope you don’t regret this later.”

“No, ma'am. I plan to make the most of this. And without C-Sec HQ looking over my shoulder, well, maybe I can get the job done my way for a change.”

Something in her snapped at his cavalier attitude.

“ _Your_ way? Garrus, do you know what happens when people do things their way, without regard for rules and regulations?” She stepped closer to him. “People like Saren happen. Organizations like Cerberus happen. Disaster happens. I will not allow you aboard my ship if you refuse to follow my rules.”

His mandibles flared in what she’d come to know as an amused grin.

“Don’t worry, Commander. I respect you. I was just talking about how C-Sec would do things.”

Her face fell, a bit embarrassed at having gone off on him so suddenly.

“Good. I’m glad we’re clear on that,” she said, clearing her throat. “And good job on the Mako. We’ll be needing it on Noveria.”

She watched his mandibles droop.

_“Noveria?”_

“Noveria.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus hates Noveria. And for various reasons, it turns out.

 

_April 19 th, 2183, Port Hanshan, Noveria_

 

The idea of spending an undetermined amount of time staking out in a frozen wasteland of a planet wasn't Garrus' idea of an ideal mission. Then again, few missions were ideal. During his time at C-Sec he'd been stuck working crap jobs: domestic disturbances, traffic control and the like. The only mission he could have called exciting was busting up a drug deal at the port where he'd almost gotten trampled by a pack of angry elcor, droning, "With unbridled rage: Get out of here." No, he'd rather not even think of that. He'd almost lost a leg in that drug bust.

 He strolled into the suit-up room with a long, heavy metal box in his hands, happy to find his new commanding officer there. But he stopped. Shepard was clad waist down only in a partially zipped bodysuit, her nude back toward him as she pulled on some kind of harness over her head. Come to think of it, he'd seen ads for them featuring human females and asari. _Bras. That's what they're called,_ he thought. Sinewy muscles rippled beneath her soft hide, bearing old scars of red, purple and gray, different in size and shape and texture, all telling different stories, each one provoking him to ask, tantalizing him to listen, demanding him to respect the much smaller, comparatively weaker being, because despite the obvious lack of natural armor, she'd survived things that would have torn an average turian apart. He'd only heard partial stories of her time in the Alliance Navy, and even fewer tales of her pre-service history. All he knew was that Shepard was something else.

 She glanced at him over her shoulder. He felt his face and neck go hot. Garrus had forgotten many humans were uncomfortable with nudity, especially between the different genders. And he'd been staring. And she'd caught him. Before she could tell him off, or whatever she was going to say, he thrust out the metal box at her in a panic.

 “Uh, so I didn't get you a birthday present.”

 By the time she'd turned around, she'd gotten one arm in the suit and was in the process of slipping the other one in. As usual, he couldn't quite decode the expression on her face.

 “So?” she asked, glancing at the metal case with a raised eyebrow. “I don't expect one from you nor anyone else. We had this conversation already, Garrus.”

 “Well... Yeah. But, see, turians have this tradition.” Employing his claws to undo the clasps, he opened the case to reveal the shotgun he'd spent all night modding. “Whenever someone gets moves up in rank, especially a superior, it's customary to give them a congratulatory gift. So, uh... Congrats,” he said, pushing it closer to her.

 Shepard finished zipping up the high-necked black bodysuit before she took the shotgun in her hands.

 “It's an—“

 “—M-55 Eviscerator.” Amber eyes peered up at him. “Garrus, this is illegal in Council Space.”

 “For military use, yes. But, Shepard, you're a Spectre. And you'll be traveling _outside_ Council Space, to the Traverse... to the Verge... to the Terminus.”

 “What about these mods?” she asked, peering at the barrel from the side. “There's no way these are legal.”

 A stickler for the rules. If it wasn't for the obvious lack of plates, Garrus would have sworn she was a turian.

  _“ETA to Port Hanshan is twenty minutes, Commander,”_ Joker said from the bridge.

  _Might as well suit up now._

 “For C-Sec officers and military officers, no.” Setting the box aside, he slid his shirt over his head and did away with his pants before reaching into his locker to retrieve his own bodysuit: also black, but made of a thicker, warmer material. “But you're neither of those,” he said as he slipped his long, spurred legs into the suit. “The high-velocity barrel is from a bust Chellick and I did some years back. Some krogan mercenary named Jax. You wouldn't believe the amount of confiscated materials C-Sec has locked away in storage.” He then began slipping on a white fleece jumper and a pair of moleskin sweatpants, a larger (and turian) version of what he guessed Shepard would be wearing. “Anyway, you can only find that in the Terminus Systems. And, don't worry. I asked before I took it. Filled out all the damn paperwork, too.”

 Shepard nodded in understanding and bounced it lightly in her hands as if gauging the weight.

 “The stock and barrel are made of ultralight materials, all legal, purchased on the Presidium with permits and all that. But, what I wanted to show you is... Here.” He approached her, taking the weapon in his hand and ejected the thermal clip. “This one's custom, one of a kind.”

 The human shot him an odd look.

 “Uh, shotguns aren't my style. I'm, ah, a sniper man, myself. I usually end up having to mod 'em... Thermal clips are easy to modify, so... Yeah. Here.”

 “You made the thermal clip?” He thought he smelled a hint of fear.

 “Modded it. Yeah. I mean, they're different projectiles, but it's, ah, it's the same concept. Essentially, I mean.”

 The silence was killing him. And was it colder in here? It was definitely colder. He continued to layer up for the mission instead of suffering through the silence, feeling much like some sort of polar cryptid by the time he was done.

 “Is it gonna explode the first time I shoot it?”

 Garrus' mandibles fluttered in confusion.

 “It... shouldn't.”

 A snort. Then a giggle. And then a shoulder-shaking laugh. The rosy apples of her cheeks pushed Shepard's eyes into narrow crescent moons, full of humor and joy.

 “Thank you, Garrus. This... this means a lot.” She took the shotgun back in her hands. “Really. Thanks.”

 “No problem, Commander.”

 

* * *

 

 

There were various conspiracy theories surrounding Noveria— about sentient experimentation, about AI-organic hybrids and mind-controlling radio waves, even about a secret army of lab-grown Protheans — and while Shepard found a lot of them ridiculous, she understood why a civilian's mind would go to such wild assumptions. Despite the fact that Noveria was located within Earth Systems Alliance Space, it was essentially a commercial black site, free from Alliance and Council restrictions. In her mind, such things could only mean danger, corruption, and anarchy.

 It was not surprising to her, therefore, when she and Garrus were met with resistance upon arrival. Two heavily-armed human females and a turian male waited at the entrance for them. The one in the middle, a woman of East Asian descent, spoke first.

 “That's far enough.”

 “We're here on business,” Shepard replied.

 “This is an unscheduled arrival. I need your credentials.”

 She tilted her head. “You had a drone scan us from the moment we stepped out of our ship and you still haven't confirmed our identities?”

 “They're probably just cleaning up the bodies, Commander,” Garrus joked.

 The other woman, a sour-faced blonde, interrupted.

 “We're the law here. Show some respect.”

 “I'm Captain Maeko Matsuo. Elanus Risk Control Services. I need to confirm your credentials. Otherwise, we are authorized to remove you by force.”

 “Commander Shepard. I'm a Spectre.”

 She heard the human subordinate snort in derision.

 “Load of horsecrap, ma'am.”

 “We will need to confirm that,” the captain said before taking a puff of air, chest rising with the air of authority. “Also, I must advise you that firearms are not permitted on Noveria. Sergeant Sterling, secure their weapons.”

 Behind her, Garrus clicked the safety off his assault rifle and, despite the fear of a bloodbath occurring within five minutes of her first mission as a Spectre, she felt relief to have such a quick thinker at her six. Although she didn't aim her weapon, her hand patted it, if only for self-assurance.

“Citadel authority supersedes yours,” he said.

 “We outrank you, Captain. We're keeping our weapons.”

 Captain Matsuo sighed. By the sudden heavy droop in her eyelids, she seemed more bored than frustrated.

 “We are authorized to use lethal force. You have to the count of three to surrender your weapons. One... Two... Th—”

  _“Captain Matsuo! Stand down,”_ a female voice commed in. _“We've confirmed their identity. Spectres are authorized to carry weapons here, Captain.”_

 Shepard saw the captain sigh again, the tension visibly easing from her shoulders. She was happy to admit the stress was melting from her own, as well.

 “You may proceed, Spectre. I hope the rest of your visit will be less... confrontational. Parasini-san will meet you upstairs.”

 “Behave yourself,” grumbled the sergeant.

 As soon as she and Garrus entered the facility, an alarm went off, an electronic droning that set her teeth on edge. Dammit, not even ten minutes in and she was overstimulated and in a bad mood. Her hands balled up into tight fists.

 “Want me to talk to her?” she heard Garrus murmur.

 Shepard gave a small nod.

 “Ignore the alarm,” said a woman, whom Shepard assumed was Ms. Parasini. “It's a weapons detector. It'll turn off in a few seconds.” She waved it off with annoyance. “I am Gianna Parasini, assistant to Administrator Anoleis. We apologize for the incident in the docking bay. Our systems are experiencing a bit of a delay.”

 “We appreciate your help, Ms. Parasini,” he crooned. “We're here looking for an asari matriarch. Maybe you've seen her.”

 “I assume you're talking about Lady Benezia?”

 “Indeed. Could we speak to her?”

 Gianna grimaced.

 “Benezia left for the Peak 15 research complex days ago. To the best of my knowledge, she's still there.” The brown-skinned woman glanced down at her terminal, her deft fingers working the holographic keyboard. “Our coms have been down since the blizzard hit, so, unfortunately, I have no way to confirm whether she's there or not.”

  _A blizzard. Figures._ Why did she ever think this mission would be straightforward?

 Garrus leaned forward, rested his elbow on the desk, tilted his head a bit. She swore his flanging voice deepened.

 “Then, could you tell us how to get there?”

 Whatever the hell he was trying to do didn't seem to have an effect on the human woman.

 “You'll have to ask Administrator Anoleis for clearance to leave this port. His office is on the main level. Left, at the top of the elevator.”

 His mandibles sagged. He thanked her and then pushed off the desk to stand up straight and leave for the elevator. Shepard turned to follow, but a question began to nag her, prodding her brain until she had to turn back toward Gianna and ask:

 “Excuse me. But, was she alone? Benezia?”

 The assistant's dark eyebrows rose in what she deemed to be momentary surprise. Her full, glossy lips pursed in thought.

 “No... No, I believe she was here with a turian. He's a shareholder, but I'm not authorized to tell you anything more than that.”

 “Saren Arterius?”

 Her dark eyes widened.

 “Yes.”

 Shepard switched on the com on her visor.

 “Joker. Message C-Sec and tell them we need a warrant for Saren ASAP. He's at the Peak 15 research facility and we need local clearance to leave Port Hanshan.”

  _“Aye-aye, ma'am.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you _mean_ you've never driven anything before?” Garrus yelled as the Mako tumbled over for the umpteenth time. He grasped at the back seat for balance, for strength, for dear life, because by all the Spirits, this tiny human was going to get him killed.

 “Shh! I'm trying to concentrate!” Indeed, she was, her frame hunched over the wheel, five-fingered hands clutching the wheel with same intensity one would hold an assault rifle— and, in his opinion, doing the same amount of damage as with a semi-automatic weapon. “I've driven a tractor,” she added.

 “Shepard, that is not even _remotely_ the same thing.”

 “Have you ever driven a tractor?”

 “No, but—”

 “— Have you ever driven a Mako? Because I know them inside and out.”

 “Model kits aren't the same— Spirits, Shepard, watch out!”

 Their bodies lurched forward as the Mako attempted to climb over an abandoned Grizzly. He hated this mission. Shepard sucked at driving, they had little clue as to where the hell they were going, this planet sucked sweaty krogan quads, and it was plate-cracking cold. He glanced down at the console only to find the vehicle's climate control was already turned up as high as it would go.

 “Let me drive. Move.”

 Now, it could have been the temperature, but he swore he saw her freeze, eyes wide and rapidly darting behind her Sentry Interface visor. He flicked on his turian version Kuwashii visor. Glowing red letters reading, “WARNING,” flashed on and off, the infrared sensors detecting an incoming slew of projectiles. Their origin? Snow-covered turrets expertly tucked away within the crevices of the Skadi Mountains.

 The Mako groaned as Shepard floored the gas pedal, veering against the projectile's path. Their bodies gave a violent jerk to the side. The wheels must have caught on something.

 “Take out those turrets!” Shepard barked, mashing the jump jet trigger.

 “Aye, Commander.”

 The periscope descended to his eye level, gave a low whir when he aimed it. The mass accelerator hummed as he charged it, roared and shook upon release. The targeted turret exploded. Razor sharp teeth peeked behind his buccal plates in a satisfied grin before he aimed at the other.

 “Brace for impact!” yelled Shepard.

 Body reeling forward, his biceps pulled and strained in effort to keep from diving headfirst into the console. Instead, his crest smashed against the ceiling, the sharp pain intensifying from the sudden rush of blood to his skull. Screeching, a muffled klaxon, blurry double vision. The sharp scent of liquid copper. Human blood. He glanced at Shepard, who was holding a hand to her face. She pulled it away. She hadn't braced in time. A crimson gash tore down her forehead and brow. The human seemed to shake it off, reaching for the propulsion jets again.

 “Cameras?” she groaned.

 “Offline. Working on them now.”

 The alarms continued to blare within the cabin, the echo tearing at his delicate eardrums with each blast. Talons clicked away at the display. It was of no use. While the Mako was upside down, cameras wouldn't be much help. Instead, he reached for the periscope and, with some elbow grease, it turned around with a horrible metallic groan that reverberated even beneath his plates. The side of his head clunked against the wall as the vehicle corrected its position, but this meant that steering the periscope would only be easier. According to his visor, were two more turrets online... on opposite sides of the ravine. Distant thundering announced the incoming projectiles. Take one out. Dodge the other.

 “Floor it, Shepard! I can only take one out at a time.”

 Locking onto the turret, all it took was a press of a button and within seconds it exploded in a glorious cloud of red and gold.

 “Ha! Scoped and dropped!”

 There was a second rumble, though with nowhere near the intensity of the earlier impact. He assumed the projectile must have hit the ground, which was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Now he could switch to the last turret, and so he did, the mechanical weapon meeting its companions' same fate.

 More thundering. Predatory blue eyes scanned the visor to find no other weapons on the infrared sensor. A forward tug nearly sent him headbutting the human in front of him.

 “What the hell did you hit now?”

 “I didn't.” Both her voice and scent spoke of fear.

 If she hadn't hit anything...

 “Oh, no...”

 When Garrus awoke, his temples throbbed to the beat of a keening alarm. A synthetic aroma overwhelmed his nostrils. Fuel. The cabin was dark, save for the red glowing emergency lights flashing on and off. His wrist ached, a possible exacerbation of the wound he'd gotten when his apartment had been bombed. Funny. Explosions and destruction always seemed to follow whenever Shepard was involved.

  _Shepard. Shit._

 The human lay face down across the console motionless.

 “Shepard. Hey... Wake up.”

 He took a gloved hand and shook her shoulder.

 Nothing.

 “Shepard! Wake up! We gotta get outta here!”

 So sure she'd forgive him, he swung his palm straight across her face, just hard enough to get her to gasp. Golden brown eyes locked onto his, wild and beginning to glow with a blue-violet aura he'd come to know as her biotics.

 “Shepard. Shepard, look at me!” He grasped her face with both hands, pressing his forehead against hers, keeping her gaze focused on him and only him. “The Mako is filling up with fuel,” he said, enunciating each and every syllable. “We need to get out now. Do you understand?” Her fingers had found his biceps, digging into the flesh between his plates. He shook her again. “Do you understand? We gotta get out of the Mako.” When her grip began to loosen, he reciprocated.

 Once outside, the bitter cold gusts burned at the few exposed bits of sensitive flesh at the sides of his neck and so, he pulled up the black mask up over his nasal plates and mandibles before slipping on the puffy white outer shell of his coat. Shepard had taken a while to regain her bearings but was currently packing on a backpack just a bit over half her height.

 “What the hell do you have in there?” he grumbled, pulling on his own backpack. Much smaller in comparison.

 “Plastic sheeting... bungee cords... a knife,” she listed off, pulling the mask over her pointy nose. “Oh, and a sleeping bag. You know. Essentials.”

 Even through his thick fleece mask, he could see puffs of white swirling before him with every breath. White. Everything was white. Aside from the gleaming black of rocks peeking from beneath the snow, everything was sparkling white. The gaping crack on a ledge above must have been where from where they'd fallen, in which case, they were fortunate to be alive.

 “Can you get a ping on Peak 15?”

 He glanced down at his omnitool.

 “Huh. It's about three kilometers south-southwest of here.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Shepard sighed and thanked the universe they'd arrived at Peak 15 before sundown. Beneath her mask, she felt her lips burn and split with every movement she made. She dropped to her knees, exhausted from lugging fifty pounds of luggage on her back and walking and climbing against the occasional gale force winds. The muscles in her back protested against any more activity. But there was no time to rest, not when they so desperately needed to warm up.

 “Hello?” she called out, voice echoing in the desolate garage. She'd expected vehicles or guards, like at Hanshan. But nothing. There was nothing now, just boxes and black slush, and the musty stench of disuse. If Saren had been here, he surely wasn't now.

  _Dammit. We almost got killed for nothing._

  _“User alert,”_ chimed some sort of VI with a female voice. _“All Peak 15 facilities have suffered a great deal of damage. Biohazard materials present through_ facility _. Virtual Intelligence user_ interface _offline.”_

 “Well, that's just great,” Garrus grumbled. “We'll need to get those reactors back online.”

  _Nothing's ever simple, is it?_

 The farther in they trekked into the facility, the more intense the feeling that something was wrong became. Backward facing miniature turrets, a damaged VI, sour-smelling green splatters on the floor and walls, the latter looking as if they'd been eroded with acid.

 “Salarian blood is green, isn't it?”

 “Not like that,” Garrus replied as he hacked the magnetic locks on the doors open, revealing an empty security room.

 Cameras everywhere. An office chair, tipped over. A lone coffee mug with its murky contents long-frozen. More green splatters, this time with trails of dark red, a trail she recognized as human blood. Whatever'd happened here had been swift and violent. The elevator, however, was clean. No blood of any kind. _Strange,_ she thought, switching on the UV light on her Sentry Interface. No fingerprints. No biological traces of any kind. Upon arrival at the cafeteria, however, that changed. The sour stench was so intense, she could taste it and it made her dry heave. And it couldn't have been spoiled food. Not when the room was essentially a massive freezer, ice accumulated over tables and chairs and crates and down walls.

 A creaking piece of furniture made her jump.

 “What was that?” Garrus muttered.

 “I dunno,” she replied, getting her Paladin out of its holster. “Stay sharp.”

 To her right, there was nothing but icy furniture. To her left, same thing, but with crates. But _something_ had moved and _something_ had made that sound, or at least caused it.

 An airy screech pierced the silence, prompting Shepard to look behind her. Two large, brown insect-looking creatures surfaced from underneath some metal grates, followed by a swarm of much smaller, lime-green colored beetles.

 “Good Spirits, what the hell are those?” There was an unsettling change in his subvocals, higher pitched, desperate.

 “Bugs, I guess.”

 The tiny green insects scuttled toward them much like the roaches back at the farm. Shepard's nostrils flared in distaste as she picked her foot up and stomped on one... only to find their acid blood ate through whatever it splattered upon, namely, the floor and the top of her boot.

 “Shepard, watch out!”

 She felt him yank her to the side and, thankfully, away from an incoming splatter of acid, courtesy of one of the large bugs. The realization that it could have been her face melting off was only starting to sink in when she heard Garrus' M-8 Avenger rat-tat-tatting off in the opposite direction.

 “Cease fire, Vakarian! We gotta get them away from us.”

 Shockwaves weren't an ability she called on often, but a flick of mnemonics was all it took to send the little ones out and away from them, painting the walls with them, while the biotic cascades knocked the bigger ones down. While her biotics cooled down, she reached for the shotgun on her lower back and unlocked it. A twitch of her thumb and she was charging for one of them, gripping the Eviscerator tightly as she sent a shredder round through it, turning and repeating the process on the other.

 Two dead alien bugs, very little mess. A grin tugged at the corner of her lips. The shotgun wasn't half bad. Hoisting it up in the air like a trophy, she cackled, hoping her partner with bellicose tendencies would join her in this celebration of victory over their insect foes. But he didn't. In fact, he seemed to be retreating, arms crossed almost as if hugging himself. She couldn't read his expression behind the winter mask, but— if turians could even grimace — she was 75% sure he was grimacing.

 “What's wrong?”

 "What's wrong? _What's wrong?_ There were tiny green acid... _things_... attacking us from every side.” She swore she saw him shiver.

 “We had them flanked. They were like roaches. Just... bigger.” She added a shrug as she set her gear down. “And... caustic.” If they were anything like regular vermin, she figured a fire should be able to keep them at bay. “Now go break up some crates and bring them here. We need kindling.”

 “Don't bugs hide in crates?”

 “Yep.”

 Shepard heard him grunt with displeasure while she unpacked her things. She decided not to unfurl the sleeping bag until after she'd scraped the bug goop from the landing, which she managed with some melted ice and a spare crate lid. After lighting a fire, she laid some layers of plastic sheeting and cardboard on the ground before unrolling her sleeping mat. Her muscles were achy and tired and she'd stopped shivering a while ago— something she knew to be a bad sign. Despite her biotics running her body temperature higher than most, Noveria's subzero temperatures managed to wreak havoc on her. And she couldn't imagine what they'd done to the turian's lean form.

 “Give me your sleeping bag. We're sharing.”

 “What? No.”

 “It'll take a few hours to heat the room. And we don't have a few hours. If we don't find a way to warm up fast, we're gonna die.”

 The turian groaned but obeyed and unfurled his much larger sleeping bag onto the ground. Taking her knife, Shepard ripped her own sleeping mat to turn it into a blanket of sorts before removing her white outer shell. Getting the turian warm before he fell asleep had to be the priority. Reaching into the depths of her bag, she pulled out a Mylar blanket folded into a palm-sized square.

 “Come sit with me by the fire, Vakarian. We can't get to sleep just yet.”

 No, not until they began shivering again. She thought she heard him mumble something, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter that neither wanted to be here nor that neither felt giddy at the thought of being huddled together. Survival was everything. _Survival is everything._ When he sat beside her on the cardboard, she wrapped the blanket around them both and huddled into his carapace, arms locking around his barrel-shaped upper torso. And, by God, he was absolutely frigid. She leaned her head closer into his cowl, the only place seeming to radiate the slightest bit of heat.

 “Come closer.”

 “I never thought I'd die cuddling with a human.”

 “Shut up, Vakarian. We're not going to die.”

 “I can't feel my fingers.”

 “You only have three.”

Did he have frostbite? The woman grasped his wrist and pulled off his gloves. Leathery, scaly, three-fingered hands with talons. Ice cold.

 “Don't scratch me.”

 “What the hell are you doing?” he protested weakly as she removed the other glove.

 She unzipped her fleece jacket and inner suit before guiding his hands to her bare waist, sandwiching them between it and her arms.

 “Just for a little while... Until you get the feeling back in your hands,” she murmured. Her eyelids weighed a ton. Shit, no, she couldn't fall asleep just yet. But, falling into that void of unconsciousness was so much more tempting with its promise of comfort than the current pinpricks attacking every inch of her skin, and the fire's dry heat, sucking every bit of moisture from her face like a million mosquitoes. “Just... a little while...”

 

* * *

 

 

An hour had passed by and the sleeping human in his arms was trembling even more so than he was. His body had never done this before. She'd claimed it was a good thing, but humans were strange. His fingertips tingled as their nerve endings awakened against the soft, pliant heat of her bare velvet skin. It wasn't completely unpleasant as it was awkward. He wasn't sure that this counted as fraternization, as it had been and still was a life-and-death situation. And had Shepard not insisted on sharing warmth with him, he was certain he would have lost his fingers altogether. The thick black fan of her lashes sat on her rosy cheeks, eyes moving behind closed lids in what he assumed was some kind of dream or lack of it. A familiar floral scent filled his nostrils, one he recalled from her bathroom. The liquid soap stuff she used on her fringe, her hair, or whatever. It mingled with her sweet, earthy natural scent and it made his head spin. Turians seldom got this close to others, the exception being grappling— whether combat or sexual didn't much matter. Naturally, then, conflict brewed in his gut, especially since he knew how she'd react when the haze of hypothermia wore off and she realized how close they were together. Shepard, the human who refused handshakes, curled up together in an almost intimate embrace. Yeah. This was going to be bad.

 “Shepard,” he mumbled, mouth against her scalp. He wouldn't pretend the extra warmth didn't feel good. “Shepard, wake up. You're shivering.”

 She hummed, sleepiness weighing her voice down into a husky tune.

 “Good...” She glanced back at the sleeping bag and crawled toward it. “Then we should get to bed.”

 But those _things_... They'd come back. What if they made their way into the sleeping bags and crawled into their clothes and bit them and _exploded_ and burnt off their skin?

 “Listen, I think I'm gonna stand watch. Never know when those...” He shivered. _“Things..._ are gonna come back.”

 “I can produce enough heat on my own now. But if you die of hypothermia, I'm stuck doing this mission on my own. So, no. Get in here. That's an order.”

 “Dammit, Shepard.”

 And now he was in a tight space with his CO curled around his keel like an infant in a carrier, her head resting on his arm. The inside of her thigh brushed against his waist and he had to suck in a breath to contain the moan in his chest. She wasn't doing this on purpose. She wouldn't know what touching a turian's waist would do to them. What it was doing to him. _Deep breaths, Vakarian._ Her hair was in his face again, assaulting his senses with its floral-earthy scent. Fuck, she smelled like spring on Palaven.

  _Nononono. Think of something else. Councilor Valern naked. Sweaty_ krogan _. Fornax. SHIT._

 The plates in his groin were loosening with every little movement Shepard made. And were he to spring free from his sheath, she'd kill him. He knew it. And if she didn't, he'd be court-martialed and killed. Garrus shifted his hips away from her, only to find hers pursuing. He couldn't blame her; body heat felt good. But this... Wait. What was that poking into his thigh?

 “Shepard...?”

 “Hm?”

 “What's...— Um, do humans...— _Shepard, what the hell is that poking into my leg?”_

 “My shotgun.”

 He nearly reeled back but decided to stay still lest his plates got caught on the shotgun and triggered it.

 “What in the— Why is there a shotgun in the bed? It goes under the pillow!”

 “You took the pillow.”

 Glancing back, she was right. His fringe made being prone difficult and he'd taken the single fluffy cushion for himself. Carefully reaching into the sleeping bag, he retrieved the offending weapon and placed it beneath the pillow.

 “Let's keep it here...”

 Shepard merely hummed in acknowledgment before drifting back to sleep.

  _Welp,_ he thought with a sigh, _at least I'm not in danger of poking_ her _anymore._

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus find Benezia. The weight of Shepard's failures triggers some bad memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains themes that may be triggering to some. Read at your own discretion. 
> 
> In loving memory of "L".

_April 21_ _st_ _, 2183_ _— Rift Station, Noveria_

 

An eerie silence fell over the station the very second Shepard and Garrus stepped off the tram, dozens of eyes falling over their armored forms, watching their every move, the very essence of horror movies. They belonged to different species, races, ethnicities, but they were all alike in one way: the panicky, shifty tension, withholding a million secrets with varying shades of malfeasance. And secrets, much like unburied corpses, stunk. And though they were hidden underneath protective piles of bureaucracy and amendments, the stench of rot was undeniable.

 The only employee decent enough to speak at length with them was a bleary-eyed salarian who'd been resting in a makeshift cot. He'd warned them about the biohazards crawling around the place, and referred to them as being something that was finally catching up with them; though, when Shepard pressed him for more information, she noticed his line of sight wandering toward the Elanus Risk Control Services guard, Captain Ventralis, who had a scowl permanently etched onto his features.

 “That guy knows something,” she muttered to Garrus.

 “Doubt he's gonna risk his paycheck to tell us. That goes for the rest of 'em. I say we just focus on finding Saren before they get trigger happy.”

 It still wouldn't solve the mystery of what the hell those bug aliens were.

 The ERCS captain crossed his arms as they approached.

 “We're just here to find Saren Arterius. The sooner you tell us where he is, the sooner we'll leave,” Garrus said.

 “Yeah, he was here. Hot labs, as far as I know. But they're infested with those aliens, so good luck. Only Han Olar got out and he ain't exactly all there anymore.”

 “Those bugs,” Shepard interrupted. “Why don't you tell us about them? What are they?”

 The bald man sneered.

 “Warrant says you're looking for that turian. Otherwise, I ain't gotta tell you shit.”

  _Sore spot,_ she thought. The more she pressed, she noticed, the jumpier they got. Sure, they chalked it up to the stims, but no one took stims to keep regular bugs away. And, she nearly made that point...

 Until she heard that tinny roar again.

 “Hell,” Ventralis whispered, and then he shouted, “Man the perimeter!”

 A collective mass of horrified screams echoed throughout the room as two of the bigger aliens popped out of the ventilation shafts.

 “Keep them back from the civilians!” she yelled, summoning a shockwave at her fingertips. The biotic cascades tumbled away from her and knocked the bugs away, surrounding them in a violet aura as a torrent of bullets flew in their direction.

 “We shouldn't have hatched that Rachni egg!” yelled a volus, stubby arms holding his head as if would explode otherwise. “This is what we get for playing—“

 Ventralis drove the butt of his rifle into the back of his head and the volus collapsed.

 “Like I said... Dr. Olar ain't all there.”

 “Rachni?” she asked. “Like, from the Rachni Wars?”

 “The secure lab is down the hall and to the left, ma'am.”

 “Commander,” Garrus said, leaning in. “I say we pick our battles. If Saren gets away from us, worse things will happen. We can deal with this later.”

 Her jaw tightened. She had limited knowledge on the Rachni, other than the fact that the galaxy required krogan help to end the war. Whether they were sentient beings or not, she didn't know. They behaved more like animals than intelligent creatures, from the confrontations they had. But if the scientists had been tampering with them, it would explain their lack of self-control and communication.

 “Let's go,” she finally said.

 Rift Station had been built into a glacier, its thick, ancient ice matte even under the gleam of the artificial lights carved into it. Were anything to go awry, Binary Helix could just melt it down and sink it and no one would ever know—ingenious, in her opinion.

 Upon reaching the secure lab she halted mid-step, slack-jawed at the sight of a large creature—alien, with a shell of lustrous obsidian and several pairs of eyes like marcasite gems—encased in a glass cell. The second its gaze crossed paths with her own, she felt a cool shiver unlike anything she'd ever felt before, ice cold fingers plucking at the strings of her mind, producing a chorus of whispers. Shepard tried to move, but her limbs were lead and fused to the floor, wanted to scream but her throat was tight. Just what was this creature?

 The click of a rifle made her heart sink to her feet.

 “Garrus... Wait.”

 “Just give the word and I'll space it.”

  _"We cannot sing in these low spaces. The musics are colorless. Flat.”_

 “Who are you?”

 “What?” answered Garrus.

 She held up a hand to silence him.

  _“We are the mother... for the children you thought silenced. We are Rachni.”_

 “You don't hear that?” she asked.

 “Hear what, Shepard?” He visibly stiffened when he followed her line of sight, swore when he saw the Rachni Queen flap its jaws out.

 “How are you in my head?”

 " _Our kind sing through touchings of thought. We pluck the strings, and the other understands. Your songs are gray, but your mind sees our cadences. His music is colorless. His mind cannot see. He does not feel our thoughts.”_

 As its hold in her loosened, her feet automatically padded toward the glass tank and she pressed a hand against it. This creature... It had a grasp on her senses, speaking in colors and chords, in flashes of light and feather-light caresses on the base of her skull—awe-inspiring and terrifying and soothing all at once. And then the colors stopped. Shepard sighed, as if the feeling had emptied from her in a gush.

 The Queen had turned its attention to a crumpled up body, one she'd been too distracted to notice, and, within seconds it stood: an asari clad in a long black dress and a sharp, matching hood. Splotches of congealed royal purple stained her skin, most visibly around the few entry wounds riddling her voluptuous body. Garrus swore behind her, muttering something about the dead.

 " _She is weak to urging,”_ the Queen spoke through the asari. _“She has colors we have no names for. But she is ending. Her music is bittersweet. It is beautiful.”_

 “Shepard... That's her. That's Matriarch Benezia.”

 The asari's pupils darkened the rest of her irises, the expanse widening as her life slipped away with every passing second, her stare unfocused, jaw muscles beginning to set.

 “Who did this?” she demanded.

 " _She sings of betrayal... Of broken trust and regret... Of work left unfinished. But not her own. She is a warrior, broken, but proud. And she leaves you the task of singing for her.”_

 “What in the hell are you talking about? Singing?” Garrus said. “And what about those bugs we saw? Are those... yours?”

  _"The children we birthed were stolen from us... before they could learn to sing. They are lost to silence. Their suffering must be ended. They cannot be saved. They will only cause harm as they are. Thieves stole our eggs from us. They thought to turn our children into beasts of war, claws with no songs of their own.”_

 When Garrus asked whether it requested that its spawn be killed, it lamented the necessity of such a deed, but nevertheless a necessity.

 “Wait,” Shepard interjected. “What about Benezia? What else can you tell us? How are we supposed to speak for her if we don't know what happened?”

  _“A song is hidden beneath layers of metal, in a cage of steel... Her final song.”_ Its layered voices lingered in the stagnant air with sadness like the unbearable humidity between rainstorms. _“Before you deal with our children, we stand before you. What will you sing? Will you release us? Or are we to fade away once more?”_

 “The Rachni were a threat to the galaxy,” Garrus said. “Those things are filled with acid. If she gets out of hand, they dissolve her.”

 Shepard was quiet as she peeled her eyes from the asari corpse puppet to land upon those of the Rachni Queen, guilt bridling her distaste for the mindless beetle aliens they'd encountered. _If we kill her, we commit genocide._ When she asked whether she'd attack others, the Queen explained she didn't know what happened during the wars—she hadn't been born—but promised she'd seek some dark corner of the galaxy and to 'sing' to her children in hopes of achieving 'harmony'.

 “I won't kill your entire race. You'll go free.”

 The Rachni Queen let out a low, purring trill, her jaws flapping in some kind of strong emotion.

 _"_ _You will allow us to compose anew?”_ she whispered, voice heavy with disbelief, incredulity that into relief, as light as vapor. _“We will remember. We will sing of your forgiveness to our children.”_

 A few taps of keys slowly lifted the glass tank, and the Queen purred again before walking away, disappearing, as far as Shepard knew, forever. When she looked back at Garrus, she saw his mandibles were pressed flat against his cheeks, tense.

 “She said something about a locker, right? Let's get that disk and go.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_May 1 st  , 2183 — _

 

 

The mission, in Garrus' opinion, hadn't completely failed; the quarian they'd met at the Citadel had proven reliable in most things tech, so he had no issue with trusting her to decrypt the scrambled message Benezia had left behind. But that had been eleven days ago. It turned out that ice powder storms—blizzards, Ms. Parasini had called them—were more disruptive than he'd given them credit for. She certainly had not been exaggerating. Even the QEC had been down until a few days ago when they were cleared for takeoff.

 Shepard, on the other hand, hadn't spoken much since they arrived on the Normandy, choosing to spend her time locked up in her cabin instead. Whenever she did remember to eat, she sequestered herself in the confines of her mind, shielding herself with the excuse of paperwork and reports. Even now, across the room, he noticed her chewing on her stylus, glowering at the datapad before her with a deep crease between her dark brows, while her mystery meat steak and potatoes grew cold. Kaidan, the only other biotic aboard the Normandy and self-proclaimed cook, fawned around her, hovering like some kind of journalistic drone as he silently tried to coax a review from the commander. The commander, of course, was oblivious and one-track-minded as ever, and flatly requested that he go away. He heard the human sigh as he approached. The pheromones wafting off him made his stomach twist.

 “She's going to work herself sick,” he said quietly before sitting next to Garrus.

 “She's a big girl, Lieutenant. She'll be fine.” Still, the thought of guilt gnawing at her mind made his heart sink. What if she blamed herself for Benezia?

 “I just keep thinking... What if the Mako's beacon hadn't worked? We would have never found you two.”

 “Occupational hazard,” he responded.

 An hour eked by before Kaidan excused himself, but Shepard remained at her table, squinting at the screen before her as she had been in the silence of the Normandy's humming engines, the lone variant being the stack of paper shifting to the opposite side and the dimmed lights in the mess hall. Whatever she'd been doing on that screen, she'd been taking breaks long enough to fill out those forms.

 “I need your help on something,” she announced, not bothering to look up at him. “I've never had to fill out a casualty report before... And I'm wondering how to tell Dr. T'Soni... A letter? I dunno...”

 A letter would have been the way to go, had Liara been turian. All turian families knew of the risks service entailed and considered death in combat to be the most honorable way to die; therefore, a letter was enough. But he was aware humans and asari were different, that their cultures were less militaristic. Though, if anyone knew about receiving bad news, it would be Shepard.

 “How did you find out about your family?” he asked, and he saw her throat bobbing as she swallowed, noticed the sudden tension gripping her angular jawline.

 “I was there.” And then she added: “But with Melissa... Anderson told me. Showed up at my door.” Setting the tablet down, she laid her head down over her folded arms on the table. “He took me to the morgue to see her and... I—I don't wanna talk about this anymore.”

 Had Shepard been a soldier when she'd witnessed her family's slaughter, he may have wondered how she had survived this long in the military. But Garrus knew humans didn't enlist until the age of 18, unlike turians whose mandatory service began at 15. Times such as these, he wondered the benefit of enlisting children, whether 15 or 18, and whether the three years made a difference. Would he have been able to bear losing his father, his mother and Solana in such a way at 15? At 18? Now? Did it matter?

 “Meet me at the cargo bay. Dress in something comfortable.”

 The fawn hide between his plating prickled at the sharp manner she regarded him, looking up from her folded arms, polished amber peering behind her thick eyelashes.

 “I want a rematch,” he stated. “You can tap out whenever you like, but last time was a sucker punch. I'm going to kick your ass.” And then he added, “Commander,” for effect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The cargo bay was devoid of souls, dark and empty save the badly damaged Mako tucked away in a corner like a pathetic victim of her shitty driving skills. _Sorry about that,_ she said silently, swiping a caressing hand over its dented armor. _I should have Garrus get on that before we land on Feros._ Speaking of Garrus, the question as to what he hoped to accomplish with this sparring session still lingered in the air. She wondered that while she wrapped her hands and knuckles in soft cotton bandages.

  _Matriarch Benezia._

 Her corpse rested in the storage room behind the med bay in a cryogenic chamber. It didn't make her any less dead, any less butchered. The number of bullet holes remained the same; she counted seven. So much for helping the Republics... And Liara, how was she going to react to this? They hadn't spoken to each other in a decade, but then again, asari viewed time differently.

  _How did you find out about your family?_ Garrus' question echoed in her mind.

 Melissa's gapped smile flashed behind her eyelids.

  _Jennifer's lips trembled at the sight before her: The batarian slaver's fingers released Melissa's frail neck at the impact of the bullet boring a hole through his shoulder. But Melissa... Why wasn't she moving? The younger girl fell to the dew-kissed grass, her soft brown hair splayed around her head like the rays of the sun, like the halo she should've had. The air tasted like fire and there ceased to be sound, save for a faint high pitched ringing._

  _Shoving past the wounded slaver, she fell to her knees, dirt and wet pebbles digging into her bare knees but she didn't care. It didn't matter. She shook Melissa's body by the shoulders._

  _Nothing._

  _And another._

  _Nothing._

  _Her name scraped through her throat in desperate cries, but she wasn't listening. Shaky hands hovered to the gaping, bleeding bullet wound on her pale neck. It wouldn't stop bleeding. Why wouldn't it stop bleeding?_

  _This was her fault._

  _This was all her fault._

  _Her parents had been right about one thing: Everything was her fault._

 One bullet. All it had taken was one bullet. And it had been Shepard's shot. The guilt gnawed at her spine, at the center of her skull even now. Shaky hands that had been aiming at the batarian squeezing Melissa's throat had pulled the trigger. The bullet had hit its intended target... But she'd underestimated its strength. She hadn't counted on it boring through its target and hitting Melissa. She hadn't meant to. But she'd killed her own sister, the only human in the world who'd understood her, who'd accepted her for whom she was, the very person she'd sworn to protect.

 The inside of her nostrils stung with the threat of tears, and said tears made good on their promise, spilling over the rims of her lids and snaking down her angular cheeks in hot streams. No, no. This wouldn't do. She couldn't let the crew see her like this.

 What if Liara reacted the same way? What if she blamed herself?

 Liara hadn't pulled the trigger. But Shepard had pulled the trigger.

 What if she blamed herself for not getting there sooner? If Shepard had killed the slaver raping her sooner, the batarian wouldn't have gotten to Melissa and she wouldn't have had to pull a gun on her.

 She killed her own sister. Every day, she toiled to silence that accusatory voice. But today it had incarnated and stood before her pointing its hideous finger at her. _You killed your own sister. You killed the only person who has ever loved you._

 Biting her lip, she turned to the punching bag and walloped away at it, ignoring the tears slithering down her face. The team didn't need a weak leader who couldn't separate their own feelings from those of others, from the mission.

  _You fucking murderer._

 She spun at the waist, delivering at kick powerful enough to swing the massive bag back... But not before Newton's third law swung it back and knocked her down, squeezing the wind from her solar plexus. It was then, and only then, when she allowed herself to cry, to keen and mourn Melissa's death again, to feel grief tear her heart and lungs and stomach to shreds and squeeze every ounce of sorrow and pain and anger and fear from them, expelling them in the form of tears.

  _I_ _'m sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry. I love you._

 When she heard the hiss of the opening doors, she barely looked back at the intruder, eyelids heavy, hot and swollen. The last thing she wanted was a spectator to her moment of weakness.

 “Uhh... Should I come back later?” Garrus asked. His towering frame leaned against the elevator, hands fumbling with each other.

 Shepard sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist, and shook her head, standing up. Dressed in her dark heather gray sports bra, black jogger pants, and foot and hand wraps, she was more than ready to grapple with him. Her sparring partner, however, looked smaller than usual: Garrus was seldom without his bulky armor and, without it, he seemed much smaller— though still nearly two feet taller than she. He merely wore a turtlenecked black suit, much like the undersuits he usually donned beneath his armor, form-fitting, flexible, only exposing his fingers, toes, and the spurs behind his calves. The flicker of his mandibles clued her in of the confusion and turmoil he felt. Did turians cry? If they didn't, did they understand why a human would weep?

“Come on,” she urged, dusting off her backside of loose dust before raising her fists in a defensive stance. She heard a chuckle rattle in his throat, sub-harmonics entwining something like genuine amusement with something like anxiety, or maybe concern; she wasn't completely sure, but she'd been around him long enough to distinguish his flanging tones. Maybe not with full accuracy, but the ones he made when he was in a good mood seemed lower, even, soothing, whereas the ones she associated with negativity were staccato, jagged, all over the place.

 She caught his eyes dip to her bare waist and she raised an eyebrow in a questioning look.

 “I mean, ah... I filed my talons down and everything, but... aren't you afraid I might—I have natural armor and you don't.”

 “No. But I'm gonna kick your ass, so don't worry about it,” she said before reaching for a mouth guard and popping it in. Her self-assured statement earned her another chuckle.

 “All right, Commander. But I gotta tell ya,” he began, rolling the knots out of his neck, lacing his digits together before stretching them in front of him. “I was the best in hand-to-hand combat aboard my previous assignment.”

 Instead of replying, she curled her fingers, signaling, taunting him to take the first shot. _Cocky turian son of a bitch._ And like bait, he took it, stepping into her space, three-fingered fists up in the air. He swung. She dodged. A practice swing or two.

 “Come on, Vakarian. Hit me.”

 This time, she flung a punch. But not only did he dodge it, he used it to pull her down and slam her down on her back, the diamond-plated metal digging against her skull. Shepard lifted her legs and, taking advantage of his lowered stance, wrapped her ankles around his neck, tugging him down with an unceremonious thump, his crest scraping the floor as he fell on his back. When he released her arm, she scurried away and rose to her previous position.

 Much to her surprise, the turian lifted his legs and propelled himself forward, kicking up into a squatting, then standing, position. Though he didn't speak, she could hear a faint purr, much like the ones she'd heard from cats at home, cats stalking their prey. Was that what this was? Was she his prey? She snorted.

 Her jaw cracked under his fist, pain radiating from the point of impact out down her neck and rattling her skull; she hadn't seen him coming. The taste of warm metal flooded her mouth, saliva streaming out in vain attempt to soothe her newly wounded lips and tongue. Her feet shuffled backward and away from him. _Shake it off,_ she thought, spitting a mouthful of blood.

 “What are you waiting for?” he teased. “Hit me, Shepard.”

 Shepard charged toward him, feinting to the right, then to the left, and again, observing Garrus' form shifting to parry hers. His massive, talon-tipped hands met every blow, each and every kick, much to her frustration. But, hell, she was burning off energy and her veins were flooding with endorphins. Taking advantage of a brief gap in his stance, she connected the heel of her hand to his jaw, his head snapping back. _Keep teasing me, you bastard._ Her knee rose, exploiting his lack of balance, driving itself into his unplated waist.

 But Garrus was much too smart for that, and she realized this much too late when he grabbed her leg, tipping her balance, and slamming her facedown on the floor. She could feel his bony knee pressing on her spine.

 “You give up, Commander?” she heard him breathe in her ear.

 “Fuck you, Vakarian.”

 Throwing her head back, she slammed her skull against his mandible, earning a loud groan from him—and a pained yelp from her own throat as a sharp pain bled down her cranium. A bad move, although it managed to peel him off her. She felt a soft thud as he rolled off her, ragged breaths trying to pull more oxygen back into his lungs.

 “I should've expected that,” he laughed, looking over at her. Navy blue liquid stained his needle-sharp teeth and slithered down his bruised mandible. _Guess those are really sensitive._

 “Yeah... That was stupid,” she mumbled, rolling onto her back, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

 Had that been a real fight... Had Garrus not been her teammate... Had he been like those slavers... Hot tears pooled in her eyes again. It would have been like Mindoir. She could feel her insides burn, stretched beyond their limits... She could hear the life gurgle out of Melissa's throat... She could see Benezia dragging herself to the locker, painting the walls with smears of royal purple blood, praying to her goddess to just hold on... And she'd failed her.

 Why was she always such a failure? Why was she always too late?

  _The distant trilling of gunfire snapped her eyes open. No one slaughtered cattle this late at night, and if they did, they wouldn't do it with an automatic rifle. From the dormer window of her bedroom, she saw a faint orange blaze in the midnight horizon. But it was the thrashing downstairs that slung her out from the apricot-hued crinkled chiffon down comforter she hated so much._

  _Danger. Something in her veins, in her head, in her heart and guts screamed danger, but held her own voice in a chokehold. She wanted to yell, to wake everyone up, but she found herself to be literally speechless. In a panic she tossed a pillow at Melissa's peaceful slumbering form, rendering the younger girl a gasping mess of confusion._

  _"What time is it?” she groaned._

  _Heavy footsteps thundered over the wooden slats, furniture growling as the intruders pushed it aside._

  _Melissa's eyes grew wide, resembling sunflowers in the midst of pools of milk._

  _"_ _We gotta get mom and dad and Theo...”_

  _The slow thumps got louder with every step they climbed. No, it was too late. Time to get Melissa out. She could get them later. A gust of cold night air burst into the room as she lifted the window. Melissa wanted to argue but Jennifer wasn't having it, giving her a push. No reason for all of them to die. Her sister's eyes flitted between her and the door. There was no time left._

  _“Go,” Jennifer croaked out._

  _A scream pierced the air, pure terror rattling in her mother's throat._

  _“Go! I'll be right there!”_

  _Melissa sniveled, wiping her dribbling nose with her wrist before climbing out of the window into the thick darkness of the night._

 God, now she was crying, body hiccuping with every sob, and in front of her subordinate, too. Talons scraped against the diamond plating as Garrus hauled himself up, clacking footfalls retreating from him. Great. Just great. She'd made him uncomfortable. There was no way she could win. Whenever she was detached and levelheaded, people called her a machine—efficient, but impersonal and cold, but whenever the thick veneer of ice cracked off and she showed her inner weakness, she was pathetic. She sniffled, rubbing the tears away with her fists. _So stupid. You're so stupid._

 The sound of Garrus' talons against the steel flooring reverberated within the cargo hold, getting louder right before they stopped next to her. Shepard lifted her head up from her knees, arms still holding them tightly. There was a neon yellow and pink aluminum can of Tupari in each of his hands, and a white parcel she determined to be an ice pack under his arm. There was an odd twitch in his mandibles, flustered, she guessed. She uttered her gratitude before taking it, popping it open, and letting the chilled sweetened-sweat-juice energy drink slither down her throat.

 “Can I come with you? When you see Dr. T'Soni, I mean?”

 Shepard sighed.

 “God, please do.”

 Garrus hummed, elbowing his CO's side lightly, though she noticed he wasn't looking at her and his mandibles were unsettled against his face. There was something different about his sub-harmonics, lower, smoother.

 “We did everything by the book, Shepard.”

  _And we failed._

 “I don't think we could have—I mean... You did everything right.” He brought a hand to the back of his neck. “We can't save everybody.”

 “I know,” she whispered. His gaze burned into the side of her face as her tears fell down the sloping bridge of her nose and dove into the floor. “I know.”

  _“Urgent message from the C-Sec, Commander,”_ Joker announced. _“Patching you into the com room.”_

 Setting their sports drinks aside, the two headed up to the elevator in silence. Maybe, just maybe this would be good news and not another way she'd royally screwed up. Shepard pushed her way past one of the guards, one-track-minded and set on getting that message.

 The holographic display flashed on, revealing Tali. Only, she couldn't seem to sit still.

  _“Shepard. It's the message. I've decrypted it. It's...You have to watch this.”_

 The holo changed to a POV video featuring none other than her quarry.

  _Saren paces back and forth, running a hand over his overgrown fringe. Each step proves too much for his hands to do nothing, fiddling with his fingers, with his zygomatic horns, to his red-dusted nasal plates._

  _“It's not working. They're not listening,” he snarls. A shove to the table and it flips, splintering as it hits the floor. “You're not listening!”_

  _"_ _I am listening,” Benezia's voice coos, her hand coming into view as it grips his arm in a show of comfort, even affection perhaps. “I'm just saying we should wait until we have more proof.”_

  _“Proof? Proof!” The turian's ethereal blue eyes take a crazed look to them. “You don't know them. You don't know him. They're fickle.” His back turns to the camera and he stoops over, followed by a loud snort and a pleasured sigh._

  _“Saren... Calm down, please. And take it easy on the minagen. It's not like red sand.”_

  _Taloned hands shred through the wall beside him with a loud boom._

  _“You don't fucking tell me what to do!” He clutches his head. “You're not helping. You're just as bad as they are.” Saren then stops, his metallic mandibles flitting in thought. “Just as bad... You... You're with them, aren't you?”_

  _“What are you talking about?” she asks without skipping a beat._

  _“Don't insult me! You thought I wouldn't know? The coms? The encrypted messages?”_

  _“Wait, what—”_

  _“—You've been lying to me. I knew I couldn't trust you!” Lunging at her, his claws reach beyond the camera and Benezia's voice scrambles for breath. “I knew you wouldn't believe me! You think I'm fucking crazy, just like everybody else...”_

  _“No... S—Saren...”_

  _“I'LL SHOW YOU!”_

  _A muffled gunshot._

  _Then another._

  _Violet droplets splatter onto Saren's bare face, and for a moment his mouth gapes with something like surprise and horror._

  _"_ _I'll show all of you,” he mumbles, retreating from Benezia's corpse._

 The screen then switched back to Tali, who was fidgeting with her hands.

  _“Shepard. I think he might be coming for the Citadel... Please, hurry. Tali out.”_

 Shepard's jaw tightened, her limbs going numb and her stomach going up in knots, the vid replaying in her mind, over and over again. She took a deep breath.

 “Joker. Set course for the Citadel.”

  _“Aye-aye, Commander.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Rachni sing through a mix of sound and color, I headcanon a synesthete could pick up on what they're saying. 
> 
> Kudos and comments make me squeal like a chipmunk. Just sayin'.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus confront Saren at the Citadel, but things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but this one was hard to write. I've been dying to write Chapter 14 so hopefully I can have that up by Friday (and here's hoping that it's good!)
> 
> Right! So, warning: violence, slight gore, and all that.

_May 15 th, 2183_

 

The medigel hadn't quite congealed the lacerations on his mandibles when the Normandy's shuttle touched down on the Citadel, the upward gusts making the wet areas sting more than normal. The creases surrounding his blue eyes deepened behind a mild wince—more at the bold path of destruction Saren had left behind rather than at the pain spreading throughout his facial plating. Blackened bulletholes lined the walls in random patterns, splattered with a rainbow of different types of blood. When he stumbled upon the corpses of some unsuspecting C-Sec officers, his heart sank. Rookies. He'd trained one of them: Lamont, a human kid from Horizon barely in his 20s. Idealistic, die-for-the-cause type. Reminded him of himself when he started out. _Dammit._

“Garrus.” Shepard's voice snapped him out of the confines of his thoughts. “You and Kaidan head for C-Sec HQ. Try to set up a comm channel, get those cameras up and look for survivors.”

“Yes, Commander,” they both replied.

“Ashley, you're with me. C'mon.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

After securing her respirator helmet over her head, she instructed they do the same, just in case. If this was indeed Saren's doing, geth would likely be involved. And who knew for sure which areas had been depressurized? With that, the two human women were gone, heading up the glass elevator.

“Through here,” he said, heading up a stairwell and Kaidan followed, covering his six. They'd never gotten a chance to work together, but he recalled Dr. Chakwas exalting his biotic prowess. That, and he trusted Shepard to pair them up according to complementary abilities. Ashley may not have been too keen on working with “aliens”, but damn if she wasn't an excellent marksman, rivaling even Garrus himself.

Glowing embers replaced Zakera Ward's usual neon lighting. Broken glass lined the streets, the occasional body here and there. _Still not as bad as the docking bay,_ he noted. The sudden lack of footsteps halted his own and he turned back. His air filter negated his ability to scent the human, but despite Kaidan's insistence on standing upright, the stiffness in his movements as he fiddled with his omnitool was obvious.

“You all right?”

He nodded.

“Migraine. The lighting makes it worse. I'll be fine,” he replied, and the glass over his visor darkened.

Migraines, whatever the hell “autism” was (whenever he asked no one and nothing could explain it plainly), no natural armor, no talons, flat teeth, dulled senses, a voluntary military force... By all natural means, humans were fragile creatures. A simple fall down the stairs could do them in. And yet, they were more or less the apex predators of their home planet. Then he remembered Shepard's survival skills, and now seeing Kaidan trying to compensate for his current disability, and he understood: human adaptability was terrifying. Throw them in cold weather and their bodies' natural insulation and circulatory systems maintained and created heat. Starve them and their bodies literally ate themselves. Dull one sense and the others worked to compensate. Whatever disadvantage the forces of nature flung at them, they had three thousand ways to overcome it.

Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he checked with the human again before climbing the next set of stairs up to the next landing, and the farther up they climbed, the worse the destruction. Bloody handprints streaked across metal, marking their owner's final resting place as where they lay. A mist of water sprayed from the beeping sprinkler systems, pooling onto the floors with the rest of the blood and glass.

The Executor's office's door was jammed, emitting an unpleasant metallic purr as it pointlessly tried to open and close together. A scan from his visor identified the problem as a physical, organic obstruction. His blood ran with ice as he imagined what it could be. He signaled for Kaidan to get into cover and then did so himself. _Where's a sticky grenade when you need one?_

“You see anyone?” Kaidan whispered.

“No one alive, anyway.”

Oh, but he did have some of those proximity grenades. In his opinion, sticking them by the door and setting them off with a few rounds would have probably done the trick, and so he decided to put that hypothesis to the test.

“Get back!”

And just like that, the sheets of metal curled out, the sprinklers smothering out the hints of fire. The two men then climbed inside, taking care not to snag themselves with the door fragments. When Garrus took in the carnage within the office, his subharmonics lowered into an anxious, staccato rumble. Executor Pallin was sitting behind his desk facedown, the papers beneath him stained blue. His eyes were open and Garrus estimated he'd seen his attacker, but it'd been over far too soon. Part of him wanted to yell, _'I told you so_ ,' but he couldn't allow himself to accept that sentiment. He _had_ told him. And yet Pallin had only been doing his job, being cautious in the face of lack of evidence. To see a man flat out murdered like this...

“Think you can open up that channel?” he asked the human.

“Yeah,” he replied, gingerly moving Pallin aside to work on the haptic keyboard.

Within a few minutes, and after Kaidan's go ahead, they decided to test it out.

“This is Lieutenant Alenko, calling all C-Sec. Do you copy?”

A hairbreadth of silence passed by and it was much more than he could take.

_“Copy, Lieutenant. This is Commissioner Chellick. Where are you?”_

“We're at the Executor's office. He's dead.”

Chellick took some time before replying. It would seem Pallin's death was news to him.

 _“Shit,”_ he whispered. _“...And Ridgefield?”_

“What about him?” Garrus interrupted, dual tones flaring as he felt another bout of dread flood his veins.

_“He stayed behind to guard him. We're evacuating civilians.”_

“Can you link the com channel to our omnitools?” he asked the human.

“Done.”

Outside the office wasn't much better. The constant sprinkling meant a constant storm shower beading and streaming down his visor. As much as he wanted to take it off, he knew he couldn't afford the possibility of surprises. By the large quantity of geth bodies on the ground, C-Sec had been caught off-guard and swarmed. _Why would Saren want to attack C-Sec?_ And then he happened upon another body that made his blood freeze, that of the man with whom he'd graduated from the academy. Red pulp replaced half of his face, but he recognized that bright green eye and the tight curls on what remained of his scalp.

He swallowed thickly before he commed in.

“Chellick. I found Ridgefield...”

_“Dammit... ”_

There was a gentle, yet firm grip on his shoulder.

“Over here,” he heard Kaidan say.

The headless remains of a Geth Shock Trooper lay in front of a closet door. The shrapnel around it suggested a shotgun. But Ridgefield's was missing. Stalking toward the door, he decided to make himself known.

“This is Garrus Vakarian. Anyone alive in here?”

He swore he heard some faint rattling behind the door. And then it hissed open. Instinct kicked in and prompted him to point his weapon at the one pointed at him. A shotgun. Ridgefield's. But the one who held it...

“Tali,” he said. “It's me.”

Her frightened sobs warbled through her glowing mask.

“They were everywhere,” she said.

When Kaidan asked whether she was hurt, she assured him she was fine, save for a small nick in her environmental suit.

“Can you get the cameras back up? We're looking for Saren.”

“Yes... If you can get me back to E-Crimes.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I need those cameras up now!” Shepard growled, driving an incendiary round through a geth's head, while Ashley's steady shower of bullets trilled in the background. So far, no sign of the Council. Their chances of survival drained with every passing second. And those cameras, those damned cameras.

 _“They're back up, Commander,”_ Kaidan commed in.

“Copy that, LC!” Ashley responded before filling a Rocket Trooper full of holes. “Where are they?”

Teeth grinding together as she sent a shockwave to topple a queue of geth and turian mercs, she tried to breathe away the anxiety squeezing at her ribcage. _Breathe. Find the Council. Breathe._

_“We can't—Ah! They're with Lang. Tayseri Ward... Oh, but...”_

“But what, LC? We're dying here!”

_“Councilor Valern is missing. He's—he's not there, he's...”_

“He's what?” Ashley yelled.

A crackle and a protest and she heard a different voice: lilting, warbled, accented, female.

 _“Shepard, there are several guards in front of a structure on Kithoi Ward! Dilinaga Hall. It's the only place where I can't access the cam—”_ Another rattle. _“—Keelah, Garrus, where are you going?”_

“Garrus? Garrus! I need you to stay where you are!”

_“Negative, Commander. I'm closer to them than you are. Meet you there. Going silent.”_

“Dammit, I need...“ No, he was right. To save the Council by all means: That was the goal. It didn't matter who got to Valern first, as long as they prevented Saren from killing him. “Kaidan, Tali. Coordinate with Chellick. I need C-Sec to get rid of the remaining pockets of geth.”

 _“Copy that,”_ Kaidan said.

With an increasing security force present within the ward, maneuvering around was much easier, sprinting past geth and mercs with ease. Tali directed Shepard and Ashley through an access leading to the outside, making Shepard feel her decision to use helmets and mag-boots hadn't been in vain. As quick as the backway should have been in theory, the charging krogan made for an unexpected challenge.

 

* * *

 

Previous experience working C-Sec meant Garrus had knowledge of the Citadel's back passages, unlike his current companions. However, time was draining away and all he could do was pray to the Spirits he wasn't too late. Digitigrade feet padded through the sewers, splashing through filthy puddles as he observed the map on his omnitool. Just a few more meters would put him directly under one of the dressing rooms within Dilinaga Hall. And by the lack of colors on his infrared sensors, it was empty. He hoisted himself up through the grates to find the room as such, though noting momentarily how much like he resembled one of those freaky Rachni soldier things he'd faced on Noveria.

A few voices in the distance, and there was the sharp scent of ozone in the air, mingled with that of a bionically enhanced turian and... No, he couldn't quite determine what that other smell was. It was like that of rust, but more chemical. The angry shouts of a human, although muffled through the concert hall's acoustic panels, rang clearly within his ears. _So he has Udina, too._

From behind the thick curtain panels, he spied Saren encased in ice blue biotic aura, a powerful bare hand around Udina's neck, while his other hand pressed a pistol to his temple. Just a few feet in front of them Councilor Valern was kneeling with his hands behind his head.

“I know it was you!” he roared, voice echoing throughout the auditorium. “You think I'm some kind of idiot! But I know it's you...” He turned to glare at the salarian. “And you didn't believe me. But you'll see. You'll all see.”

He must have increased the pressure toward Udina's temple because the human let out a pained yelp.

“Tell him! Tell him it was you!”

“Go to hell,” Udina sneered.

He saw Saren's hand squeeze tighter.

“Tell him and I'll let you breathe!”

Before Udina could inflame the situation, Garrus stepped forward. The fact that Saren hadn't scented him earlier was proof in itself of his clouded judgment. His biotics flared at the sight of him. From what he'd seen in the vid, he guessed he was still on minagen.

“Saren,” he began, his hands up. “It's over. All of C-Sec knows you're here.”

His steely eyes glowed with rage, and he let out a primal, bared-teeth growl, pointing his weapon at Garrus.

“But they won't find me... They won't find any of us... You think I didn't plan for this?”

“Plan for what, Saren?”

His bare mandibles fluttered, his subharmonics like the chatter of a crowd. He was confused. He wasn't in his right mind. The glow in his eyes faded in a few seconds of what Garrus deemed to be clarity... Only for it to return full force.

“Put your weapon down! Kick it over here.”

Using his thumb to unholster his assault rifle, he placed it on the ground and slid it over with his foot. The scan detected no more geth. What was Saren talking about? A sinking feeling hit him as his visor picked up two warm bodied organics sliding into the premises through the roof access. _Shepard and Williams._ How could he communicate without alerting Saren?

“I intend to finish my mission,” Saren stated. “And if no one will believe me, I'll take you with me.”

The red, orange and white-colored figures drew closer. The one he identified as Shepard hid behind the wall, while Ashley's form wandered toward the backstage and closer to him. She and Williams must have been getting in position. He prayed to the Spirits that either one of them could see the subtle shake of his head.

“What are you trying to prove?” he asked. Saren had to be stalled.

His mandibles flared as he gave a sardonic laugh.

“You'll see...”

Udina fell to the floor with a rough shove. The barefaced turian turned to his omnitool, queuing up some sort of program. Soon enough, his face appeared on it. _He's broadcasting._

“Citizens of The Citadel,” he began. Because _of course,_ he had to address them as the megalomaniac he was. “Know that today... Today your liberation from lies and—and tyranny... Your liberation has begun.” _Spirits, Saren. How much of that did you take?_ At this moment, all the wards were frozen, injured citizens and officers probably staring up at the massive screens depicting a dusted-up ex-Spectre spewing out nonsense. The angle of the camera now aimed at Udina's swollen and bloodied face, with the Councilor looking as sullen as ever behind him. “Behold... The enemy. The source of your suffering. And the Council...” Saren's massive hands waved about as if physically seeking words, his secondary vocals wavering between notes of triumph and uncertainty, of determination and anger, and Garrus couldn't lie and pretend it didn't scare him.

“Saren... What are you talking about?”

“Shut up! You're—you're with them!” His talons clutched at his uneven fringe. Did he have a headache? Was he coming down?

“Shoot him!” Udina yelled. “He's ins—”

The bullet that pierced his skull silenced his protesting forever. Garrus blinked back the spray of cold levo blood settling over his face. His eyes wandered to the wall hiding Shepard, finding her with her pistol trained on Saren.

“You got a lock on him, Williams?” he heard her ask.

“Affirmative.”

“Saren,” he said, willing his vocals to stop shaking. “Do you have any idea what you've done? That was the human ambassador. You've kidnapped the salarian councilor. This is treason.”

The haze in his eyes cleared for a few moments. His subharmonics waned into a remorseful keening.

“You—you don't understand! The enemy! They're the enemy!”

Another shot sent a mist of blue through the air and Saren to his knees. Williams approached the wounded turian, rifle locked on him, while Shepard untied the Councilor and checked on his bruises. Yet, Garrus couldn't shake the feeling that something was still off.

“Saren Arterius,” Shepard stated, beginning to slap the cuffs on him, ignoring the bullet wound on his arm. “You're under arrest for the murders of Nihlus Kryik, Matriarch Benezia, Ambassador Udina, and citizens of the Citadel, as well as treason and extortion.” And she read him his rights.

No, the troubling scent wasn't coming from her. Her temper scented as levelheaded and determined.

No, no. There was something wrong. What was going on?

A crowd of C-Sec officers burst through the doors to escort the criminal to a safe cell, bringing a barrage of different scents in, all heavy with adrenaline, turian, human, salarian, asari...

What was this feeling?

He saw the red dot marking Saren's forehead a microsecond too late. A loud noise and there was nothing left but the fragments of broken bones and plates, drenched in blue. Spirits he was breathing in Saren's blood. He spat and coughed, tasting iron on his tongue, whether it was in his mouth or not. Bile and the tisane he'd had earlier followed soon after.

He could hear Shepard yell about someone on the balcony. When he raised his eyes, he spotted an asari in navy and white armor.

“Council's orders, Commander,” Tela Vasir's booming voice echoed through the auditorium, a cocky smirk twisting her violet lips. “A Spectre _always_ finishes the mission.”

 

* * *

 

Shepard let out a sigh, thankful for the hot shower she'd just had. Soft terrycloth wiped at the beads of water that had collected behind her ear. She'd be sore tomorrow regardless, but her muscles had loosened up somewhat under the steaming water. Despite the small break she'd been given, the weight of the day was starting to take a toll on her.

Just ahead Garrus sat on a bench between the lockers, wearing a clean black undersuit. There was a morose weight to his neck, eyes downcast. He ran a gloveless hand over his fringe and sighed before leaning his elbows on his knees.

“You okay?” she asked, leaning against the locker in front of him.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah... I'm—I'm good.”

“C'mon. Even I can tell that's complete bullshit. What's up?”

He peered up at her with a quirked mandible and a dry chuff.

“Ah... I don't know. It just—it's just... We worked our asses off to get this guy. And now he's dead. And...” The bench groaned as he shifted uncomfortably. “And that's it. It's over.”

Shepard nodded vaguely, arms crossed tightly like tourniquets, holding the aftershocks of adrenaline from vibrating through her aching limbs. All this energy spent, all this death, all this effort, and what had they to show for it? Where were the reparations for the grieving families? Where was the justice?

“He kept saying no one would believe him. And I pushed, Shepard, I did. But in the end, everything is the same as before. We've got nothing.”

“What do you think he meant?”

If turians could blanch, she was sure Garrus had done so, his face suddenly wan and haggard.

“I... It's just a gut feeling. But the implications... We're not gonna like what we find.”

“We're not supposed to. That's why we're here. To bring it to light, to fix things. Right?”

He gave a wry chuckle and shook his head. She wasn't sure what that meant.

“Yeah... Yeah, you're right, Shepard.”

“You need a place to stay? My couch is still free.”

“Heh. No, thanks. Chellick found me a place. I'd, uh, rather avoid the interspecies awkwardness for tonight. No offense.”

No offense and yet those words slashed at her like the cut of a whip. The weeks spent together on this mission, had they meant nothing? Did he not feel a bond of friendship between them? _No, no. He needs space. He's tired. I'm tired._ Maybe it had been a tactic, a way to ensure the mission succeeded. And if it had been, it succeeded. It had fooled her.

“You okay?” he asked, head tilted.

“Hm? Yep. Yeah. Just thinking. I, uh, I'm going home. Gonna get to bed. You know. Tired... Uh, good night.”

Garrus stared at her for what seemed like years, before he gave a nod.

“Yeah. Good night, Shepard.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Critiques? I'd appreciate either one! Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus gets a big promotion during the 25th anniversary of Armistice Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! 
> 
> If you're curious, this is the playlist I used for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLNAwMmMObu5qlj74oAlMIadWwjM3oneBt
> 
> *TRIGGER WARNING AHEAD*

_November 11 th, 2183_

 

The 25th anniversary of Armistice Day brought a change about to the galaxy now that a human Spectre and a turian had successfully collaborated together to bring The Citadel's most wanted criminal to justice. Or so went the preface to Garrus' invitation to Palaven's new diplomatic in-orbit station, creatively named Cipritine Station. It would seem his people figured out most races couldn't tolerate Palaven's blistering levels of radiation without their skins melting off, and opted for a space station instead. Keeping himself from rolling his eyes at the unnecessary opulence was proving to be exhausting and so he pushed past the crowd of overdressed turians and humans toward the bar, where Anderson nursed on a glass of levo brandy.

"I hate these things," he grumbled into his drink.

"Human formal wear? Or compulsory political events?" Garrus replied, leaning his back against the bar top.

"Can't have one without the other.” He all but inhaled the drink, slamming the glass down.

Ceremonies and more ceremonies. A whole room froze in silence just to watch Primarch Fedorian and Admiral Hackett pin badges of courage on Anderson and Garrus, touting their bravery in the face of danger, a vapid performance to prove the galaxy that humans and turians could work together, an empty show to convince the public of the lie that the galaxy was now safe. _Lieutenant_ Vakarian had a different feel to it than _Detective,_ and despite the promotion, he felt as if he had gone down in the world; instead of freedom, he'd be noosed with ropes of endless red tape until they left him hanging and thrashing about.

The change wasn't all too unpleasant, however, as many a turian woman approached him afterward. Some would flutter their mandibles and tilt their heads, exposing that small patch of alluring, sensitive flesh between their necks and cowls. Others would let their hands linger at his arm for a microsecond too long to be considered as simply being friendly. And he'd chuckle as he did whenever he felt flustered, flick out a smirk baring both his teeth and his intentions. Another would leave contact information in his hand, or lean in a little too close to pretend he didn't scent her pheromones. He was conversing with a particularly beautiful turian woman, with a reddish tint to her hide and ivory plates that caught the warm glints of light from the chandeliers. Her subvocals purred with all kinds of dirty promises. And _oh,_ the things she'd do to him... The things she'd let him do to her. He'd be crazy not to go home with her.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Chellick said, melting the confident smile off his potential date's face as he smacked him on the shoulder. “I'll just steal him away for a few minutes. I'll bring him back. Promise.”

His feet dragged beneath him and he waved back at the jilted woman's shrinking form as Chellick pulled him away.

“You have some bad timing.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep it in your plates. She'll tend to it later.” A playful slap on the shoulder shoved him forward. “So, did she tell you yet?”

“Tell me what? Who?” His mind was still with the woman at the bar. “Aw, look, she's leaving!”

“Shepard,” Chellick replied, his firm grip on his shoulder grounding him back into the conversation he didn't want to have. “She hasn't told you anything yet, then!”

Garrus watched her leave with a click of his tongue and a groan before turning back to him.

“What are you talking about?”

The commissioner parted his mouth to speak but by the distant look draping over him, something or someone had caught his eye, prompting Garrus to crane his neck to investigate. For a moment he wondered how he could see anything past the mass of people congregated in the middle of the room. But then he saw it.

He saw _her._

He blamed the delay in recognition due to the fact that she looked drastically different in contrast to her day-to-day appearance: Long dark hair swept over one of her shoulders, frizzy curls now smooth and polished, dressed in a black gown with long sleeves and silver cuffs. There was a suggestion of collarbone beneath the high neckline, and the creamy curvature of her outer thigh peeked demurely through the slit of the skirt—the very collarbones and thighs he'd seen a million times before, tending wounds after a battle, during downtime, while they changed for a mission and never before had they made his mouth feel so damned dry as they did in this moment.

“Don't tell me you've got a thing for the Commander.”

He had to rip himself away from her to shoot Chellick a reprimanding look.

“Of course not. She's... She's a human.”

“And? I'm guessing you've never tried human before.”

“Someone's obsessed with my love life.”

“Look,” he said, leaning in. “All I'm saying is, it's not as weird as you're making it out to be. Turians and humans get together all the time now. So, if you're interested, you should let her know.”

The lights dimmed, music flooded every corner of the ballroom. The dancing began and Shepard was lost in a sea of swaying bodies. His eyes searched every corner, every gap between dancers, every table. The sight of her was life-giving water and his eyes thirsted for her. Finally, he spotted her by the sidelines with Captain—rather, _Admiral_ — Anderson and a human woman with yellow hair and bronze skin. Shepard held a flask, which she proceeded to take a swig from, earning herself a laugh from Garrus himself. He saw the woman paint something sticky and glossy onto Shepard's lips: some kind of human cosmetic, he figured. By the deep grimace wrinkling the bridge of her nose, Shepard was not a fan.

“No... No, I'm not into humans,” he said to Chellick, but he was already gone.

When he looked again, she, too, had vanished from her spot. Where had she gone? Garrus scanned the crowd again for her until coming upon two parallel lines of humans clapping their hands to a basic rhythm. From what he could see, a pair—one from each line—would take turns dancing their way down the line. Or, at least, the human equivalent of dancing. Shepard and Anderson took their turns: Anderson, doing an embarrassed two-step, fists raised almost in a defensive stance, while Shepard jerked her entire body around as she allowed the music to seize her and make her balter to the catchy bass riff. _Shepard, what in the hell are you doing with your arms?_ Garrus snorted and shook his head.

“So your friend's gone, huh?” mused the flanging voice of a woman, tearing him away from his ex-superior. The one from the bar! Right. He'd been talking to her before Chellick waltzed in and...

“Uh... Hmm. Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. Business. Uh... Citadel... business.”

Aenea Quirinius, turian ambassador to the Salarian Union, whose neon violet and gold markings suggested she hailed from Edessa. Intelligent, powerful, beautiful. What more could a man want? The belt around her waist told of the way her body narrowed and then tapered to her wider set hips and sloped down her long legs. Was she flexible? Oh, Spirits, he hoped so and he sure intended to find out. She seemed pleasant enough. And judging from the way she sought him out after they'd been so rudely interrupted, she was still interested, too. And so after fetching her another drink, he continued the conversation they'd been having. The Union had set up a brand new embassy on Sur'Kesh after years of pestering Dalatrass Linron for decent dextro accommodations. They shared a joke over the difference between turian beds and those of other species.

Yes, Aenea was lovely... But he couldn't help having his mind wander to something else, his line of sight meandering to someone else. Kaidan approached an idle Shepard with a refill to her flask. It appeared as if he'd figured out how uncomfortable she was at these functions, and that she needed a shot of something, _anything_ , to make it through this hellish night without falling apart. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it was made him witness the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing he'd seen all night. Her tresses bounced over her shoulder as she tossed her head back in a full-bellied laugh, her smooth neck bathed in the milky glow of the disco lights.

“What do you think?” asked Aenea.

Crap. What was she talking about? He had to think of something quick.

“Sorry. I, uh, got distracted. One of the humans was...” His brain short-circuited and so he mimicked it. “Waving their hands around. They looked like a piece of seaweed.”

Did she buy it?

The woman looked over her shoulder at the dancing crowd, obviously humoring him. Her subvocals were soft, low, but uneven. Great. The first chance at a decent date and he screwed it up by not paying attention.

“They do move rather oddly, don't they?”

“Uh... Yeah. Yeah, they do.” Great. He was bombing. Every fiber of his being was on high alert, screaming “ABORT” as he looked back into Aenea's turquoise eyes, now glazed over with annoyance. “Look, I'm sorry. I'm not good at this sort of thing. And the loud music makes it worse. Can I start over?”

The vexation melted away from her face and subvocals almost instantly.

“Of course,” she said. “I understand. I have to say I much rather prefer salarian parties. They're quieter. Less music and more getting to the point.”

Garrus shook his head with a laugh.

“Yeah, that's a bit more my style.”

Her delicate mandibles fluttered in a soft smile.

“Good. Then, in line with getting to the point...” The woman approached him, let her hand wander down the line of his arm until they placed a card in his hand. “Come see me later when you feel like clearing your head.” With that, she turned and left, hips swaying with each step. A key card to her hotel room. _Good to know,_ he noted with a smirk. He'd be rude to not follow her, right?

Just as he took those first steps, though, he caught a glimpse of Kaidan's hand against Shepard's bare upper back and that, he hadn't expected; from the waist up, her back was exposed save for a few thin goldtone metal chains that pooled at the curve of her spine. His other hand cradled hers. It was oddly intimate, though perhaps it was because of the heavy-lidded, gentle way he regarded her as if she were this precious gem, the rarest and most deadly of flowers—if flowers could singlehandedly kill an entire platoon in a matter of seconds. _Okay, maybe not a flower. But something just as beautiful and lethal..._

Had he just thought of Shepard as beautiful? No, there was something definitely wrong with him if he referred to a human as such. He wasn't so sure about human beauty standards. But there was something to them, the same way there was something to anything in nature: flowers and plants and animals and stars... It didn't mean he wanted to sleep with any of them. Spirits, was he defending his own thoughts to himself?

When he glanced at them again, Shepard was retreating and shaking her head, eyes wide like those of a frightened salarian, and Kaidan was still on the dance floor, his thick brows furrowed in perplexity. The human male tossed his hands up in a near-universal sign of frustration and retreated to a table, his hands rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Welp. I wasn't expecting that,” he heard Shepard grumble beside him. Her hand grasped an imaginary glass which she tipped toward her mouth, a gesture requesting a drink from the bartender.

“What happened?” he asked, leaning over, both elbows on the counter.

“He said he had feelings for me,” she stated, before shooting back the fresh glass of liquor. It hadn't made its way down her throat before she gestured for another.

A blindfolded keeper could have seen that months ago. The lingering stares, the obsequious nature of his speech, the way he sought out her approval on and off the battlefield, the awkward smiles and laughs. But not Shepard, apparently.

“Is it that bad?” he laughed. “From what I hear, the Lieutenant is a catch among humans.”

“It complicates things,” she muttered, staring at her newly emptied glass. When had she finished that drink? “I... I'm not good with those things. I don't get them.” Shepard's silken lips released a morose sigh. “I just... I want things to be simple. Y'know?”

Garrus nodded.

“I dunno. And Kaidan is a kind person. He tries, y'know? But...” She stared off at the frost-like lip print around the glass.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already pouring out of his mouth.

“But if you like him, you can give him a chance. To understand you, that is.”

Her smile didn't reach her eyes when she turned to face him. The sight of her squeezed at his heart until it ached.

“How's that fair for him?” Shepard shook her head. “Like I said, I'm not good with that stuff. I don't get it.”

A few dozen heartbeats passed between the silence, drowned out by the electronic music. He wasn't going to push her into Kaidan's arms if she wasn't already inclined to go. The dance floor slowed down along with the music, an energetic rave replaced with an easy ballad. This one he actually knew. He recalled for a moment the way she'd laughed with Kaidan, so carefree and genuine, the way she'd been with Anderson while they'd been dancing. And before long, the desire to ask her to dance was like an overwhelming itch.

“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “We can be losers together.”

Her gaze hesitated between his hand and his eyes for a moment, and his heart sank. Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Maybe she thought he felt sorry for her, or that he was taking advantage of her.

But then he felt the heated touch of her palm and his worries and the crowd around them vanished. He closed the distance between them, body close to his, eyes like amber cabochons piercing into his. Had they always had those green flecks around the pupils? His hand vacillated on where to rest: her shoulder? Or her waist, as Kaidan had done? It settled on her upper back before his fingertips felt the lack of fabric between them. Touching her naked skin felt wrong. Not that he found her repulsive... No, the opposite was true. He was altogether bewitched with her, and the solid feel of her shoulder blades, the slight notches of her spine... It was all too intimate, robbing his mouth of moisture, his lungs of oxygen, and his mind of sanity. All this, without her knowing the effect she was having... It would be wrong. It would ruin what they already had: a beautiful friendship. Therefore, Garrus chose to move his hand to the clothed dip of her waist, trying his damnedest to ignore the sensual flare of her hips.

“What?” she asked, mouth curled into a smile, head tilted curiously.

“Huh?” His neck felt a flare of heat.

“You're staring.”

Excuses caught in his throat, piling up until all he could utter were nonsensical sounds.

Her laughter sent puffs of warm air against his cowl.

“You're short,” he said, watching her roll her eyes. Even with those stilted human shoes, she barely reached the top of his keel.

As she parted her lips speak, he felt a jolt of pain stab at his foot while Shepard stumbled in his arms.

“Sorry,” she groaned, hobbling back. “My feet are killing me in these shoes.”

“The pain is mutual,” he grunted. “Now let's get out of here before you maim someone else.”

Slipping her shoes off, she carried them in one hand as they headed out to the lobby area, where it was empty and silent by comparison. He spotted a cushioned chair and began to call for her. But she'd already moved on, entranced by the emerald and amethyst veil of Trebia's aurora against the glass windows. Her mouth fell open as she placed her hand against the glass, the flecks in her eyes greener than ever. For a moment, he thought her a goddess.

“It looks a lot more vivid on Palaven. You didn't have solar storms on Mindoir?”

“Not this vivid... This is—I've always wanted to see the aurora. It was at the top of my bucket list.”

Garrus frowned.

“What's a bucket list?”

“A list of things you wanna do before you die,” she murmured, looking back at him with an expression he couldn't quite name: Wistfulness added its somber azure hue to it, with something like joy dialing up the warmth in her face.

“Well... What now?”

The top of her shoulder poked through the neckline of her dress as she shrugged, turning back to the natural phenomenon before her.

“I dunno... It's so beautiful, I can't think right now.”

“I know what you mean,” he replied, forcing himself to watch the aurora instead. He felt a dark blue flush creeping up his neck. “You, uh... You look good, Shepard.”

He could see her turn to him from below, saw the apples of her cheeks rise with a dawning smile. And then their eyes locked together, the world around him fading away again. And then he knew for certain he was in trouble. The way she looked at him pulled him in like a magnet and he was the helpless satellite caught in her force of her orbit. He lifted a hand to let it tuck away a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't pull away. No, in fact, she seemed even closer than before, staring at his mouth.

“Shepard,” he whispered. “I...”

The sound of his name, coming from a male turian, shattered the illusion of their own little world. He sighed, fists balling up until his knuckles cracked. Two turians approached. One he recognized immediately, the familiar blue markings identifying him as Castis Vakarian, his father. The other took a while before he could register him as Primarch Fedorian. Castis ricocheted a look between both Garrus and Shepard but said nothing. Not a greeting, not a reprimand, nothing.

“Lieutenant Vakarian, congratulations,” Fedorian said.

“Thank you, sir.”

As the Primarch sang his praises, Castis' stare bore holes into his hide. Shepard, on the other hand, pulled away and began to excuse herself.

“I've been assigned on a tour of the Terminus Systems for the next three months, starting tomorrow. So, y'know... I gotta get going. Booze is wearing off and all.”

He wanted to ask so many things. When had she planned to tell him she was leaving? Had this moment been uncomfortable for her? Could they talk later, maybe?

“Good night,” she bade them. “And, Garrus...” She put on a mysterious smirk. “Congratulations.”

The three of them politely sent her off: The Primarch and he with a wave, Castis with a nod.

“So it looks like she told you,” Castis finally said.

Garrus searched for her by the entrance. Shepard was gone. So many things left unsaid, so many feelings he couldn't yet identify... And for what? _I'll tell her tomorrow,_ he thought.

“No, she didn't. What's going on?”

The Primarch and Castis exchanged a glance, but the politician spoke first.

“Shepard has nominated you to undergo Spectre training.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_November 23 rd, 2183_

 

Worry had consumed him for two whole days. He would have loved to blame Spectre training on it; but after the hell he'd gone through with Shepard, Spectre training was easy and he'd known it would be. No, the very cause of this turmoil was Shepard herself. Her smile was etched onto the back of his eyelids, her scent embedded in his nostrils, to the point that she haunted his dreams.

Garrus shifted in the uncomfortable human chair and winced at the loud groan of its legs scraping against the floor of the empty office. Instead of obsessing on the mystery of why he was here, he scrolled through his omnitool. “NO NEW MESSAGES,” it read. Shepard hadn't replied to his message since the night of the party. Maybe he'd come on too strong, or something; the possibility made his stomach twist into a knot. Then again, Shepard was terrible with replying to her personal terminal. He let out a sigh and rubbed a palm against his forehead. Why did she make him feel like some teenage fledgling with his first crush at boot camp? It almost made him feel bad about judging Kaidan so harshly.

When the doors hissed open, he turned to see Admiral Anderson and Tali. Anderson's deep ochre complexion was ashen and hollow, dark circles beneath his eyes; this was the look of a man carrying the weight of the universe, a man who had slept even less than he, a look that alerted every nerve in his body that something was wrong. For a moment, Garrus was thankful humans lacked subvocals, because he doubted he'd be able to process so much information at once.

Tali, on the other hand, wouldn't look him in the eye; her shoulders slumped as if she were bearing some of the weight in Anderson's somber presence.

“Lieutenant Vakarian... I figured it was best to speak to you in person,” began the human, and the quarian began to cry behind him.

He felt every vein in his body freeze, the unbearable wintry chill he'd experienced on Noveria, flooding every inch of his body.

“What's going on?” he demanded, standing from his chair. Tali wouldn't say anything. She just stood there, hand over her respirator, shaking her head as her body convulsing with each sob.

Anderson opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, and he could hear his words halt in his throat. His eyes looked glazed, his throat visibly working to swallow.

“Shepard... is dead.”

The words didn't register. Garrus snorted, crossing his arms.

“What is this, a joke? Where's Shepard?”

“She was killed in action. The Normandy... There was an attack. The ship crashed planetside and... she's...” The man's lips trembled, betraying the otherwise stone-faced mask he sported. “She's gone.”

“I'm so sorry,” Tali whispered.

Why were these two so upset? Shepard wasn't dead. She was kicking ass in the Terminus Systems. She was probably assembling those little model ships she loved so much, ignoring the crewmembers, or beating the crap out of that punching bag, or... No. She wasn't dead. That was ridiculous.

“HQ wants to get the facts before making this known to the public, but I figured you should know,” Anderson stated. And he said nothing else for a while.

His knees felt like rubber, his lower legs numb. His mandibles fluttered with unspoken words and he stumbled backward into the chair. This was so confusing. This had to be some kind of joke. It was a really stupid, unfunny joke. Shepard couldn't be dead. He'd just seen her a while ago. Then... She'd never received the message; she'd never read it at all. And all because she was... She was...

He'd been so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice Anderson setting a box down on the desk before him. It was labeled with human writing, but his translator read it clearly: “Shepard, Jennifer M.”

“H—How? When?” he finally managed to ask.

“We picked up one of the emergency shuttles four days ago. Joker was... He said she was trying to get him aboard a shuttle. An explosion separated them.” Anderson gulped again. “He, uh... He saw her get spaced. He's, uh... He's not taking this very well.”

Garrus was no longer making eye contact; in fact, he wasn't looking at anything in particular. The silence was ringing in his ear, the atmosphere choking him, the box with Shepard's name an austere reminder that all that was left of this supernova could fit in that tiny crate. She'd been spaced. Did she... Had she suffered? Had it been quick? She'd died alone, probably screaming into the black void of space, with no one to hear her, with no one to comfort her.

“Did... everyone else make it, at least?”

Anderson shook his head.

“Half the crew is still missing. Pressly died during the initial attack. And Williams... She didn't make it.”

The ride back home was nondescript; he didn't remember much except for Anderson telling him to take care of himself. He set the box down on the kitchen table, stared at it for several minutes as if opening it were akin to peeling the sheets back from a corpse to identify it. Part of him laughed at the fear of seeing Shepard's lifeless face in the box. They hadn't even retrieved her body yet. And if she'd broken through the atmosphere, they wouldn't find much of her. She'd be scattered like the most beautiful of meteor showers.

Feinting hands reached for the lid until he decided to rip off the bandage and open it.

Yellowed, dog-eared papers scrawled with colorful crayons, signed with the name Melissa; an unopened model ship kit of a turian vessel marked “Kara”—and he had to laugh at the cruel irony; a few of her personal toiletries. He figured this was all they recovered from her apartment. Jennifer Shepard in a box.

She was dead. Shepard was dead. Shepard was dead and there was nothing he could do to fix it. He could no longer tell her she was the best partner he'd worked with. He could no longer thank her for not making fun of his visceral reaction to insects. He could no longer spar with her or laugh with her or tell her that she'd been the only true friend he'd had in years, the only friend who'd never judged him for being a shitty turian.

Reality sank him deep into its icy, dark depths and robbed him of his ability to breathe. And for the first time since losing his mother, Garrus allowed himself to keen and wail as his heart shattered.

Shepard was dead.

And there was nothing he could do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't get the Kara reference, play Kasumi's DLC and check out all of the sculptures in Hock's collection.
> 
> Comments? Constructive criticism? Lemme know! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus struggles with getting his life back together after Shepard's death. A clue in Shepard's belongings begins an unstoppable chain of events—whether The Council likes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you are probably going to kill me for this chapter, but...

_January 7 th, 2184_

 

A numbing fire enveloped Garrus' sunken eyeballs, a pressure reminding him of his chronic lack of sleep and alcohol-induced dehydration, one that wouldn't go away no matter how many times he rubbed at them with his fingertips. The truth was, his entire being was numb: nothing was funny, nor challenging, nor easy, nor enjoyable, nor painful. Everything simply.. was. A sharp, throbbing ache split his temples apart. The pain in his chest, however, remained no matter how much he drank, gambled, or buried himself in work. Now that he found himself within these familiar, four gray walls of Anderson's office, he found it had worsened, his flesh reliving every smell, texture, and sound he'd experienced when he'd gotten the news...

“I don't want this,” he said, sliding the box of Shepard's belongings toward Anderson. The movement wafted the sweet smell of the shampoo she'd used: warm citrus flowers, rain, and honeysuckle. A wave of grief filled his lungs until he felt he'd drown. He scurried away from it, taking a desperate breath. “You were like her father. You should have it.”

Anderson didn't look much better himself. His skin was riddled with fine-lines and shadows, particularly around his permanent frown, while puffiness had settled beneath his eye sockets. For a few moments, he said nothing, though Garrus could tell by the sound of his quickening heartbeat and the look of his darting eyes that there was more to it than stubbornness and anger.

“I... have some things I kept. But this... I think she would have wanted you to have these.”

“Why the hell would she want me to have her toiletries?” Not that he could bring himself to throw them away. Garrus winced at his own tone. “Sorry... I didn't mean... I've just been...”

“Never mind that.”

Garrus ran a hand over his fringe, groaning at the awkward atmosphere wedged between them. Once he gathered his thoughts, he parted his mouth to speak; however, all words died on his tongue when he noticed Anderson's line of sight wandering to a spot behind him, and curiosity and paranoia urged him to investigate. Just what in the hell was he looking at? None of the book covers looked particularly interesting, nor did any of the knickknacks sitting on the shelves. Then, what...?

_Oh..._

Keeping his hands close to his body, he signaled behind him.

Anderson nodded once, slowly.

Of course. This, after all, was The Citadel. Every corner of it, particularly The Presidium, was bugged, listening to potential conspiracies, watching for keywords. _Then, maybe..._ Anderson knew something he didn't. He decided to excuse himself, extending out a hand to shake in mock professionalism. Anderson, however, did not shake his hand right away. But when he did, there was something small, flexible and rectangular pressing against his palm. His pulse sped up at the realization that he was handing him something.

It wasn't until he got outside that he checked what it was: A piece of paper with human writing. Much to his bewilderment, there were only two words:

F A L S E  L E A D

In spite of the time he had on the way home, the bright red letters burned in his corneas and goaded at his gloom-hazed mind. What was a false lead? What leads had they gotten? He sipped a mug of lukewarm coffee, staring blankly from his kitchen table into the living room, which he'd have to cross to get to the storage closet containing Shepard's belongings. A pang of guilt jabbed at his heart at having hidden her away so soon. No, he couldn't think of her right now. There was work to do. _False lead, false lead._ Had Saren been a false lead? _Obviously not. He attacked the Council._ There had to be something else there.

The Admiral had been so damned adamant about having him keep a box of junk, only to tell him it had a false lead? Had someone given her a false lead? Was that why they'd shipped her off to The Verge? For a false lead? How was there any sign of a false lead in the dozens of drawings in that stupid box? He must have looked at that thing over a thousand times, combed through it trying to gather the last bits of Shepard's memory and spirit, wailed over it like a bereaved spouse...

Groaning within, he stood and made his way to the closet. The minute he opened it, her scent washed over him. It was growing fainter each day, a fact for which he was both thankful and mournful.

This time, instead of digging through it, he tipped it upside down and shook the contents out onto the table, papers rustling and fluttering through the air like dead leaves, soap bottles and books and a hairbrush clattering down noisily and rolling off the table. And, for what? He was left with nothing but a messy table, an unanswered question, and anger creeping up his body like steam. He flung the empty box against the wall in a fit of rage and hid his face in his palms, as if physically holding back the rogue wave of emotions threatening to overflow from him until it dissipated into an unsettling, but steady trickle.

There, across from him, sat that stupid, newly-dented box. Only this time, a thin stack of papers in an envelope peeked out from it, slightly fanned out from the impact. _False lead._ Closer inspection revealed it to be a file. _Spirits, only you would use actual paper,_ he thought as he thumbed through them: Pictures of Udina, printed receipts of purchases, tax records, along with some other names. Curious as to what else could be there, he picked up the box, discovering a thin slab of cardboard with a sheet of metal glued to its back: _plumbium,_ a metal known for screwing up x-rays even now. Dropping his gaze back to the papers, he skimmed through them, his translator glitching every time it came upon Shepard's sloppy handwriting. At least she had the decency to write in Galactic Interlingua.

And then he realized: Lead, as in English for _plumbium,_ not a piece of information. False lead, as in a false bottom with a lead sheet to hide its contents from being scanned. Damn humans and their thousands of mutually unintelligible languages.

One of the pages, the one with a description of the Blue Suns mercenaries, had a poorly-sketched flow chart in bright red magic marker. He was beginning to think humans had a thing for red markers.

He stared nonplussed at the chart for a few minutes, squinting between it and the rest of the pages. What did the pictures of Udina making transactions with random asari have to do with anything? Flipping through the pages produced no answers to the question, but spawned even more. However, being that the last thing she'd written was the name of this foundation, he opted to start there. Yet, hours into an extranet search yielded no results, except that of making his eyes feel like the arid deserts of Tuchanka. His morning alarm would be going off any minute and he technically should have been getting ready for work.

Yes, that was exactly what he would do. Ten minutes later, he was out the door, having splashed some water over his face and cleaned his teeth thoroughly.

C-Sec was quieter than usual at this hour, as most sane individuals were either just waking up or asleep. E-Crimes, their busiest sector, was unusually empty. _Better for me,_ he mused, sitting down behind an extranet terminal. His fingertips set a quick pace as they entered the search term _Doru Biotic Research Foundation._

N O  S E A R C H  R E S U L T S  F O U N D

That was a red flag if he'd ever seen one. A mysterious foundation that had received, according to the record, two million credits, and yet lacked the faintest of traces on the web.

Garrus chose a different search term this time: _Doru;_ it produced several more results. Names of volus bachelors on dating websites, of humans, and old human roleplaying game weapons. But only one result stood out:

D O R U  D I S T R I C T ,  O M E G A

Doru District was strictly an industrial ward, home to its ventilation system, water treatment facilities, and its eezo mines. Eezo mines. Biotics. _Then that fake research foundation likely has to be connected to Omega._ But no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't imagine Udina frequenting Omega. _Unless he had some an acquaintance there._ A thorough search of his past coms would be able to reveal whether he did or not.

N O  S E A R C H  R E S U L T S  F O U N D

This was impossible. There was no way Udina never had any private messages or coms of any kind. This had to be some sort of mistake.

“What are you doing here?” Chellick's voice asked. A flip of the light switched exposed him by the door, searing Garrus' pupils in the process.

“Someone hacked into our database. There's no info on Udina at all.”

“You shouldn't be here, Vakarian.”

Garrus turned to face him, exhaustion pulling at the creases beneath his blue eyes. Chellick sported a pinched expression, mandibles laying tight against his jawline, all playfulness he associated with him nonexistent.

“Where's Tali?” he asked. “She works here. She can get... She can break through...” Spirits, he was so damned tired. What was he even saying anymore?

“Tali'Zorah doesn't work here anymore.”

“What?”

“She doesn't work here, Vakarian,” he insisted. “And neither will you if you don't stay in your lane.”

A few moments of disbelief passed between them until Garrus stood from his chair.

“Are you threatening me, Chellick?”

His expression remained unchanged, olive green eyes unrelenting in their glare even as Garrus towered over him.

“You are not authorized to be here.”

“You don't understand... Saren... Udina... Shepard... They're connected. I don't have all the proof, but—”

“Whatever it is, it's over. The Council ordered us to close the case. It's out of our hands.”

“The—This is about Shepard. The person who saved their asses, remember?”

Chellick sighed, dropping his gaze.

“And someone you cared about,” he said, voice softer than before. “I know. I know. But, this is about protocol and chain of command.”

“Did you not just hear me? Someone... Someone hacked in. The data is gone! It's all gone, like—like he never existed. And you _know_ Udina was always on his terminal.”

The commissioner's posture was stiff, subvocals calm and controlled, but Garrus still caught that tell-tale strain of him physically swallowing his emotions. He knew something. He knew something and was choosing to remain silent.

“Even if that were true, what would you be able to do about it? You're not even a Spectre yet. You're a C-Sec officer. You have no business outside of The Citadel.”

Red tape. Lies. Secrets. Everything was exactly the same, after all.

“And, insubordination aside, tampering with another department's equipment is a punishable offense. You could lose your badge, Vakarian. I know this is difficult, but—“

“—But what? Learn my place?”

“Vakarian, if you don't calm down I'm going to have you suspended.”

Garrus let out a sardonic huff, feeling rage boil in his stomach, feeling it pull at the tendons of his knuckles.

“Then we're done here,” he said in a low voice, brushing past him.

 

* * *

 

 

_January 8 th, 2184_

 

A sharp pain sawed his skull in half while throbbing at his temples. Garrus hissed at the artificial sunlight spilling in through the window making his pupils burn and contract. Just a few hours ago, he'd been at Flux—from what he could recall—playing quasar and losing miserably and drinking far much more than any living being should. And then... _And then what?_ Last night was a complete blur. The mattress creaked as he sat up, sharing his distaste for the sudden shift in weight. Garrus let out a groan, palming his face in hopes of warming it up, of loosening his stiff jaw, of relieving the dry pressure carving creases into his facial plates.

The squeak of the sink's knob made him perk up in alert. Someone else was here.

His mandibles drooped.

_I took someone home..._

He sighed, trying to ignore the surge of guilt promising to drown him. As if he didn't have enough problems. Shepard was dead, he'd just rage-quit his job, he'd have to hear his father chastise him for years to come, and now he had to deal with the issue of this drunken tryst.

When the door to the bathroom opened, it wasn't some random turian woman or asari that came out, but... a quarian. She finished adjusting her mask before she noticed he was awake.

“Tali...”

“Oh... I, uh... This is... _Oh, Keelah._ This is awkward,” she said with a particular nasal sound to her voice, fidgeting with her hands.

Tali. He'd had sex with Tali.

“I was trying to leave before you'd wake up, but...” She sniffled.

“Listen,” he started, out of a sense of obligation, but he lacked any coherent words. “Tali, I'm sorry, I—Did I...?”

She shook her head.

“No, no... It was...—Can I get some water first? My head is killing me.”

He wouldn't argue with that, being that, as miserable as he felt right now, he could only imagine how sick she felt right now. Especially, if they'd been together. He had to peel himself from the soft comfort of his bed to slip his undersuit back on, just in case quarians were as squeamish about nudity as humans were.

Once in the kitchen, he brewed some coffee for the both of them, setting the mugs on the kitchen table where Tali was. Careful not to drag the chair, he took a seat, drank a sip and leaned forward, steeling himself for what was to be one of the most awkward conversations he'd ever had.

“I'm guessing you don't remember anything,” Tali said.

He shook his head.

White eyes blinked and avoided his behind a violet mask, heavy-lidded from sleep.

“I got fired. They revoked my resident status and—” A loud sneeze lit her respirator up like a torch. “Ugh, _BOSH'TET,_ my head... Do you have any painkillers?”

The very least he could do was fetch them for her. He could probably do with some, himself. He waited with bated breath until she took them.

“Look, we were both very drunk, you offered to put me up for the night and...” Tali lowered her head, staring into her steaming mug of black coffee. “I feel like we got caught up in the moment. We needed each other.”

Garrus shook his head.

“I took advantage of you. And I... I am so sorry.”

Tali sighed.

“No. I—I was the one... I was upset and... You were there... And with you, I knew I'd just get a runny nose in the morning, so... I don't know. I figured that just for the night, I'd make some good memories on The Citadel before I left.” Her long, slender fingers tapped against the ceramic. “And you were one of the few people I can trust, so... I'm sorry for using you.”

A wave of nausea cooled his stomach, though he couldn't tell if it was from the hangover or from feeling like such a scumbag.

“Are you upset with me?” she asked.

“No. Why would I—No, no. I, uh, feel bad. I feel like I used you.”

He swore he saw a hint of humor glinting behind the tinted glass.

“Please, Vakarian... I used you for your body. We were there for each other. That's all it was.” One of her hands patted his own, seeking to soothe him. “So, don't worry about it.”

“Welp... That's a little mean,” he replied with a sheepish chuckle, feeling the tension start to slip away. “But I guess I'm all right with that.”

After some more playful banter, she went on to explain her situation with E-Crimes and the side investigations she'd been conducting. The more she spoke, the more she fanned the flames of his suspicion.

“I found messages between Tevos and several other diplomats. There are some between a particular ambassador, but the name and logs have been wiped clean,” she said. “A lot of things about that case don't make sense... You don't think the Council would take out one of their own, do you?”

“It wouldn't surprise me.” Not with the way they're covering up Udina and Shepard's deaths.

“Anyway, I got caught. Sparatus ordered Chellick to fire me. Some stupid excuse about putting the station's security at risk. And when I wouldn't back down... They said I had a week to leave The Citadel. Yeah.”

As a quarian, she'd have a hard time finding any station to take her in. The galaxy was particularly unforgiving to her species, having unleashed a plague of artificial intelligence on the rest of the other races. They'd become pariahs, forced to live as nomads. Most treated them as vermin, as mere vagrants, parasites who mooched off the systems. He was embarrassed to admit he'd been one with such a viewpoint before. Then again, he'd never met a quarian before Tali. But if they were half as hard-working and intelligent as she, the claims against her people were baseless. Ah, there he went again, judging an entire species based on an individual. Part of him wondered what turians looked like to other species. _Hardasses_ was the term Joker used. Maybe that wasn't completely untrue.

“Where will you go?” he asked.

The faint outline of her lips curled into a smile.

“Illium. An old acquaintance decided she needs my expertise. She isn't satisfied with how the Republics treated her mother's death.”

“Dr. T'Soni.”

Tali nodded.

“She said she'd sponsor me in exchange for my help.”

Right. Much like on The Citadel, quarian weren't allowed on Illium without contracts, rendering them little more than slaves—or as Illium liked to call them, _indentured servants._

“What about you? Will you go back to Palaven?”

Palaven? No. Not while Castis Vakarian was still breathing. It wasn't enough that his impulsive personality clashed with that of his father's traditional values, nor that while he was away from home his mother wasted away with some neurological disease... The moment his family found out he'd thrown away his career, at least one of them would die: Castis from a heart attack, his mother from shock, or Garrus from strangulation. But that was turian family life: make your species proud, die for the cause. Maybe turians and quarians weren't so different after all.

“No,” he replied. “I'm going to Omega.”

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus continues to deal poorly with his grief over Shepard's death. Aria T'Loak makes him an offer he can't refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief reminder that this is an AU, so some occupations have been changed. Please be aware that this chapter deals with sex workers and trafficking. Also, please don't kill me over this one. XD

_October 2184_

 

Had someone told Garrus ten months ago that he'd be working for The Terminus' most notorious drug lord on Omega, he would have spat in their face. And yet, here he was, standing before Aria T'Loak herself and receiving orders. The asari matron sat on her black sectional couch with her long legs crossed, a snifter of brandy in hand. She was a queen, an absolute monarch perched on her throne and this---Omega, Afterlife, the Underworld of crime---was her domain, her element. She kept her minions close and underfoot, flanking her at the steps leading up to her honored seat. The way she spoke was succinct, precise, not a word, syllable, nor decibel wasted, tracing each sound with the tip of her tongue without an unnecessary movement of her sharp jawline. Her very appearance commanded respect, her eyes promised glory if one were to obey her, cruelty and violence if one chose to stray. She was Omega's most powerful force, its natural selection, the delicate balance that kept Omega from becoming a complete wasteland and rendered it a thriving, albeit chaotic, ecosystem. 

Neon fuchsia lights outlined her silhouette with each flash, the droning of the club's synth bass only adding to her mysterious aura.

“I heard you tracked down a Blue Suns shipment last night,” she said. “Well done, _Archangel._ Make sure the girls get on the next shuttle out of here and you'll get your money.”

The manner in which she so casually discussed sex trafficking was enough to chill him to the marrow. Then again, being the owner of the sole legitimate brothel on Omega, she would have to be knowledgeable and unflinching in regards to this subject. Just how had he ended up working so closely with something like this?

He went home just before the start of the day cycle, much earlier than usual. The already dim corridors of Omega were even darker, with the occasional flickering threat of _LOW POWER_ displayed on the main walls, and the sickly bile-yellow glow of vending machines.

“ _Drink Tupari: The Stuff of Heroes!”_ it chimed.

He would pass this every night cycle on his way to his apartment, and every time he felt the need to stop and glare at it. Stupid machine. These were basic models, no holo-ads, just harsh lighting and motion activated sound. No, they weren't like the ones on the Citadel, the damn Citadel. These didn't have altered pictures of Shepard, nor a cheap imitation of her dulcet voice, nor her lopsided smile pressed against a dewy can of orange Tupari when he knew, he _knew_ she absolutely _hated_ the orange flavor and loved the grape. The ones at Omega weren't exploiting the courage of a dead person to sell poor quality dyed sugar water to make a profit. And yet, every time he heard that damn slogan, he couldn't help but hear it in that tinny impression of her voice.

When he arrived he sank into his cot, unconcerned with waking his roommates. By the electronic whisper and ghostly light, Butler was still up watching some sort of vid on his terminal. Garrus turned over on his side away from the human and pulled the thin covers over his cowl, praying to the Spirits that sleep would find him soon.

But then it happened.

“ _The feeling of a rural breeze caressing your skin, whispering secrets of the past. That feeling of pride and honor and tradition. The feeling of being part of something... greater. Visit Mindoir: Where Heroes are Born.”_

Each word was a dagger to the gut. The stupid slogan though was the twisting of the knife and suddenly Garrus couldn't take any more.

“Turn that crap off. I'm trying to sleep,” he barked and shifted in his cot.

The light shut off with the click of a button and he heard the other cot squeak under Butler's movements. He squeezed his bone-dry eyes shut and gave a silent sigh. And all was calm.

Until Butler spoke.

“You okay, man?”

Blue eyes ripped open.

 _There are murderers roaming the galaxy under the guise of being “good guys.” Shepard's dead and they're using her image to sell things. They're selling_ her. _And nobody cares. Nobody does anything. Everything is exactly the same as day one. No, I'm not okay. I'm not fucking okay. Nothing is okay._

“Just trying to get some sleep.” Hopefully, that would shut him up. Talking wasn't exactly something he was up for right now. Shutting his lids again, he reveled in the silence afterward like soaking in a hot bath: warm, all-encompassing, comfortable.

“You shoulda been there today, man. It was me, Mierin, Weaver and Melanis, man. Sidonis got these Blue Suns fuckers, right? Led 'em right to our territory and shit. Mierin and Melanis, right? They throw out these stasis fields. Froze 'em right up. And Weaver and me took our incendiary rounds and went to motherfuckin' _town_ on these dudes.” He laughed. “I mean, we lit 'em up like Christmas trees.”

Some regional human reference, probably. He'd heard Bailey mention it once.

“Oh, right, uh... You know those evergreen trees. Some humans put lights—you know what? Doesn't matter. They're gone.”

“I told you already,” said Weaver. The chatter must have woken him up. “They're gonna be coming after us. What Sidonis did was stupid. I told him we should've taken out Vosque first. All we managed to do was kill a few low-level lackeys and piss 'em off.”

“Whatever, man. Now there's six less criminals in the galaxy. Right, boss?”

He didn't know. At this point, he didn't know whether if anything they were doing even made a dent in the system. Garrus scrubbed a hand over his face. Spirits, was a moment of quiet such a difficult request?

“I know you're a colony kid, but have you ever kicked over an ant hill? Because that's what we just did. And it's gonna come back to bite us all in the ass.”

Apparently, it was. Standing from his cot, he grabbed his pillow and stormed out for the living room. _Damn it._

 

* * *

 

 

As Weaver had predicted, the stunt backfired on them—and, not too surprisingly, on the citizens of Omega. Paranoia ran high among the factions. Bullets flew indiscriminately, hitting whatever they were (poorly) aimed at: enemies, walls, trash cans, windows, bystanders. Blood Pack versus Eclipse versus Blue Suns. The innocent'd never had a chance against the bloodthirsty gangs. Their bodies littered the ground like yesterday's trash. A bright red or blue mark on armor marked the occasional fallen gang member, but not enough.

Garrus stooped down, turned over the smaller body of a human. A woman with half-lidded eyes, the color of Shepard's—like the light of the sunset through glass. Clean bullet wound through her forehead. The visor estimated she was about 15 years old, though there was no identification on her. She wore clothes like those of the human colonies, only tattered and bloodstained. She must have been brought here. This had been one of the girls he'd sworn to save, to get on a shuttle out of Omega and into a safe haven. His hands were ice, and his heart was sinking into the frigid pool of his stomach.

This... all of this was their fault.

His fault.

Garrus took a deep, calming breath within his helmet. “Butler. You and the rest... Get IDs on the casualties. Make sure you let their families know. Get their belongings to them. Message my terminal with the ones with no identification.”

He turned to Sidonis, who was busy fidgeting with his fingers. “You. You're coming with me.”

“Uh... Yeah, yeah! Sure thing.”

For the first ten minutes of the walk, he kept his maw sealed while Sidonis sputtered excuses, platitudes, the emptiest of observations, seemingly to fill in the long silences and the prickly tension between them.

 _Fifteen years old._ Shepard had been close to that age during the attack on Mindoir. And if she hadn't survived, then maybe... Maybe she would have been that girl, lying on the grease-stained ground, abused, with a bullet hole in her head. And then, what would it all have been for? Not that the results had been much different. Instead, she had been torn apart or suffocated and floating endlessly through the vastness of the galaxy like a piece of space junk, only to disintegrate through the...

Garrus shook the morbid thought away.

“Why do you think we're here?” he asked as soon as they reached a nondescript building.

Sidonis flinched as if he'd thrown something at him. “Uh... I don't—I don't know.”

“I mean, on Omega. Why are we on Omega? What is Archangel's purpose here?”

His bright green eyes flickered about as if the answer were floating in the air somewhere.

“To set things right?”

His talons dug into Sidonis' tunic, and the back of his fringe slammed against the corrugated gate behind him. “You think we've done that? You think we've set things right?”

Sidonis flinched, and Garrus realized his saliva had sprayed through his teeth. Didn't matter. He deserved it. “No, okay? No! Look, I thought I was—I don't know what I was thinking. No one's gonna miss a few more criminals!”

“Fuck the criminals!” The rusted metal groaned with the weight of Sidonis' body. “What about the civilians? Thirty-five innocents! You think that's acceptable?”

Steely gray eyes dropped to the ground, faded blue mandibles tight against his face. His subvocals were tinged with regret, embarrassment, and something else. He couldn't quite read it. Sidonis' fringe scraped the metal gate as Garrus took his weight off him.

“Let's go. We're late.”

Afterlife's loud pulsing bass had often given him headaches when he'd first arrived on Omega. Now, however, it gave off a pleasant numbness, deafening the cacophony of thoughts in his mind. No pain. No flashes of Shepard's face. No clips of Shepard's laughter. Shepard. _Shit._ Maybe it wasn't working as well as before. He dodged between a few lithe dancers, beckoning the two of them to come over, or just one. And maybe tonight would be the night their propositions worked. Spirits knew the batarian shard wine wasn't having its desired effect, either.

Aria sat overlooking her establishment and seat of government, perched high on her throne like the queen she was. With a wave of her hand, her batarian and turian guards stood aside and gave him and Sidonis access to parley.

“Last night was a clusterfuck,” she stated. Well, wasn't that the understatement of the year. “But, it did manage to halt a shipment. So, I suppose you accomplished your objective.” A kowloon full of local young humans and asari, apparently. From Sidonis' wide-eyed look, he was just as surprised as Garrus. Aria gestured to Grizz, and he tapped their payment into his omnitool.

“Blue Suns are starting to be more trouble than they're worth,” Sidonis grumbled.

“What the fuck do I pay you for, then?” Aria T'Loak was more likely to have someone ambushed and shot on the spot than to raise her rather delicate voice, though the barbed tones in it were ever-present. “Speaking of which... I have a proposition for you, Archangel.” As if that were _his_ nickname, rather than the group's.

“I'm listening.”

With a tilt of Aria's squared chin, Grizz took it as a signal to hand over his datapad. The face of a scarred human man sat high on the screen, above his profile stats: Zaeed Massani, ex-leader of the Blue Suns.

“My men caught him the moment he docked. He's still alive, should you wish to have a chat with him.”

“What's the catch?”

Her lips stretched into her signature half-smile. “You're catching on, Archangel. I need something smuggled off-world. Council space, specifically.” She laughed. “Oh, don't give me that look. It won't harm your precious 'innocents.' Just a little contraband.”

Sidonis' expectant gaze lingered on the back of his neck like an unsettled child clinging onto their parent.

“Well? We have a deal.”

Garrus took a deep breath and muted his surroundings. Massani could potentially have some information on the current leader, their weaknesses and the like. It could mean a crushing blow to the Blue Suns. And if the Suns went, then it would only be a matter of time. And then maybe this bloodshed would not be without reason.

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Tarak. Batarian bastard,” Zaeed explained, and then took a drag out of his cigar. “I told Vito he was making a goddamn mistake when he began hiring them. Slavers, the lot of them. But, he thought he was being so fucking pragmatic because it was cheap labor.” He jabbed at the air with the lit end. “You know, when we started the Suns, we were respectable. A private security company. Now, look at 'em. Bunch of goddamn traffickers, selling sand and sex to the highest bidder.”

“Just tell me where he lives,” Garrus said.

His mismatched eyes glanced over at Aria, who'd remained relatively silent during this exchange. The smirk quirking at his scarred, thin lips was unsettling.

“I'm guessing you didn't get this meeting for free.”

Of course. Everyone wanted something. This was turning out to be one of those long-winded rigmaroles with which Shepard often occupied her time. _Shit. Not right now. Don't think about this right now._

“What do you want?”

“I'll make this one easy,” Aria interrupted. “You tell him where Tarak lives and I'll give you a lead on Vido Santiago.”

“Then we've got ourselves a deal.”

Within minutes, he had an address, a schedule, habits, among other data which, for the moment, seemed of little import but could potentially be useful later. He didn't even notice Zaeed had left until he saw the empty chair. Probably gone off to make use of those coordinates, he figured. Or at least, that would have been his personal course of action.

For now, the foremost thing on his mind was getting to Tarak, scaring him, making him rethink his course of action. If he could cut off the Suns' head, then the proverbial monster would regenerate no longer, leaving the two other beasts for him to slay. And then, perhaps, Omega would be better for it. Safer. Just like—

“I'd think carefully about how to use that information,” Aria said. As if she could read his subvocals.

“I've got this.” Wipe them out in one clean fell swoop. Get rid of them all. Fulfill his purpose, and then maybe...

The asari blocked his path to exit the private room. “I'm saying, don't be stupid. Omega has a rhythm. Disturb it and it'll come back to bite you.”

“Worried about me? I'm flattered.” He reached for the lock behind her to open the door, but she moved in his way. “Really. I got it.”

Aria tilted her head at him, mouth curved in that smirk of hers that screamed of a challenge. The blood coursing through his neck sped up at the sight, the scent of excitement, the look of curiosity darkening her eyes.

“Don't. Be stupid,” she repeated through clenched teeth.

“Move out of the way.”

Pulse tapping at his neck, against his sternum. The instincts to fight, flight or fuck were blurring together in an ugly neon mess, vibrating against his spine with each pulse of the electronic bass. His head reeled with the surge of adrenaline, and her lips were on his neck, his talons on her tapered waist. Clothes on the floor. Taste of blood and another's tongue. Ragged breaths and impossibly wet heat. Blunt teeth on his cowl and he was lost in the fog of desire and need.

That night he left with a satisfied body, a guilty conscience, and a sickened stomach.

...And the perfect way to get back at the Suns.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! Sorry it's been like 11 months, guys. It's been CRAZY with the hurricanes and family stuff and my inspiration has been all over the place. I do hope to get this baby back on track, even if it's so far from canon. Thank you so much for all your support. I've been rereading all your comments and they've seriously kept me going. Hope you enjoyed this overdue chapter and that you'll continue enjoying what's in store on "The Verge." XD


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